<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Pick Me Out of Your Teeth by wxpt</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594496">Pick Me Out of Your Teeth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxpt/pseuds/wxpt'>wxpt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Coming of Age, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homophobic Sonia Kaspbrak, Humor, Jealous Eddie Kaspbrak, Jealous Richie Tozier, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Pining Eddie Kaspbrak, Recreational Drug Use, Sneaking Out, Sonia Kaspbrak Being Terrible, Teenage Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club Are Good Friends (IT), Underage Drinking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:00:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,939</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxpt/pseuds/wxpt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All Eddie Kaspbrak wants is just one, normal teenage experience before he leaves for college. The night before graduation, Richie decides to give him just that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 6:30 A.M. - 3:00 P.M.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this awhile ago when I was really into the IT fandom. I probably won't be continuing it, even though there's room for a sequel, but it might as well be read. Have fun and let me know what you think! :) (this is also my first time posting on ao3 so tell me if anything needs to be changed tag/warning wise!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> 6:30 A.M. - 3:00 P.M. </em>
</p><p>Derry chews people up. </p><p>Derry eats out your heart. It rends into whatever normal people are made up of. Like their soul or something. It doesn’t even matter because Derry doesn’t care. It’s just hungry and it just eats. That’s all it knows. It eats good people up everyday.</p><p>All Eddie really knows is he’s leaving. He has a one-way ticket to California and an acceptance letter to UCLA that reads: <em> I’m your last chance </em>.</p><p>Eddie’s being overdramatic. Eddie is prone to dramatics. Eddie feels <em> only </em>dramatics. If you don’t try to feel things, they start to disappear. </p><p>Sonia Kaspbrak feels things. She feels love with her whole, enlarged heart. And Eddie feels it right on back. </p><p>Every action has its opposite. If Eddie doesn’t shove back, he’ll get swallowed whole. He loves his mom, he does. But. He thinks he’ll love her a lot more 3,000 miles away. </p><p>She’s going to hate California. Sonia isn’t a big fan of the sun or the sand or, really, anyone outside of herself and Eddie. She doesn’t have to know yet, that he’s leaving. He’ll tell her in July. Somewhere on a borrowed phone mid-way through an airport.</p><p>Cowards way, sure. It’s in his nature though. </p><p>It’s in his nature to hide the ticket half-way under his mattress. Sometimes he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to double check it’s still there. </p><p>To California. </p><p>That’s all Eddie wants. He just wants to leave. He’s so tired of this place. </p><p> </p><p>Richie meets him a block from the house. It’s raining in torrents and Eddie has his jacket sleeves pulled all the way down his fingers, the hoodie tucked tightly over his head. While he’s waiting, sometimes the gutter splutters up some new horror like an old take-out box and Eddie has to pat the inhaler in his pocket for comfort. </p><p>Richie’s car is an old, piss-stained Volvo with a rear bumper that drags and makes sparks when you reach higher than 40 MPH. Needless to say, it’s Richie’s baby. Eddie hates it with a fury.</p><p>Richie pulls the car to the curb, rolling down the window just a crack. “Want a ride around with Ol’ Mrs. K. I promise she’s just as good a ride as she was in her 20s.”</p><p>Eddie swipes the rain from his face. “Don’t call it that,” he says, like he says every time. “Also that’s disgusting. Are you suggesting I should be having sex with my mom?”</p><p>Richie just grins. “Hey, now. <em> I’m </em>the only one allowed to have sex with your mother. Besides, I don’t think you’re in any position to be arguing, Eds,” Richie points out and Eddie feels the cold rain seep into his socks. “Do I need to lure you in with candy like some 70s pedophile?” he goes on, like he goes on every time. Through the tinted glass, Eddie, unimpressed, watches Richie put a finger across his upper lip and say, in a scratchy old voice, “Heya, kid, want some —”</p><p>“You look like Hitler,” Eddie notes before Richie can get too far along. He rounds the car, hopping over the gurgling gutter to get to the passenger side.</p><p>As he slips in, lugging his backpack onto the ground, Richie says, “I’m not Hitler,” in an objectively bad German accent, “I’m a pedophile.”</p><p>Eddie straps himself in. “I really wish I had a recording tape,” he muses. </p><p>Richie laughs. He’s in a good mood today because, “It’s the last fucking day, Eddie!” he says, dropping all pretenses and putting the Volvo into first gear. Last day of high school, then they’re walking, and it’s finally over.</p><p>“Then we’re California and New York bound.” It feels good to say.</p><p>Richie got into NYU. Eddie didn’t expect anything less. Richie talks big game about smoking behind bleachers and defacing school property, but Eddie knows he’s smarter than his Voices make him seem. </p><p>Eddie’s proud of him. He is. It hurts, sure. All his friends are splicing up across the country. Bev and Ben to Illinois. Stan to Georgia. Bill, Mike, and Richie are going to sublet an apartment in New York City together. It hurts, but sometimes the good things have to hurt.</p><p>“Whaddya gonna miss most, Eds?” asks Richie. “Because, I for one, am going to miss the warm, meaty comfort of your mother’s embrace. She’s really got me hooked, kiddo.”</p><p>Eddie kicks his feet up on the dash, dragging a finger into the window’s fog generated from the heat of the janky air conditioning. “When are you popping the question?” </p><p>Sometimes it's better to humor Richie, Eddie thinks, making a hang-man post and dashing out lines underneath. </p><p>“Oh, golly,” Richie says and mimes loosening his collar. He’s wearing a shitty button-up and some band t-shirt underneath along with a pair of jeans Eddie is positive haven’t been cleaned in a year. As is Richie’s way. “Are you giving me the T for Talk?”</p><p>Eddie draws out a singular T on one of the dashed lines. Eddie glances sideways at him. “Yeah, here goes: stop fucking my mom.”</p><p>Richie hits a fist to his chest in offense. “If this is ever gonna work out, Eddie Spaghetti, you’re going to have to let me in emotionally,” he says paternally. He reaches over and squeezes Eddie’s knee.</p><p><em> Bad luck, Tozier, </em>thinks Eddie. “All I’m saying,” Eddie says and he taps the window pointedly, Richie throws out another random letter (E), “is for all your talk about loving my mom and making our family whole, you spend an awful lot of time sexualizing her instead. Seems toxic.”</p><p>“Nothing wrong with a bit of sexualizing.”</p><p>“I really need to buy that recorder.”</p><p> “I’ll remind you. H.”</p><p>Two H’s. </p><p>By the time they reach Derry High, they’re both in a (frankly) ridiculous conversation about what constitutes love and if Richie in fact <em> loves </em>Mrs. Kaspbrak or is simply after a good time.</p><p>Eddie is laughing. It’s a good day. It’s the last day. </p><p>Richie is saying angrily, “What do <em> you </em> know about your mother’s sex life?” when the hang-man finally spells out <em> Beep-Beep, Trashmouth. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 7:00 A.M. </em>
</p><p>It hides behind Eddie’s teeth. </p><p>There are times when Richie looks at him and Eddie wonders if his cover is blown. Like now.</p><p>The seven of them are crowded in the hallway before first period. Ben is talking about a restaurant his mom is taking Bev and him to tonight. Some Italian place in downtown. Stan is stating, very practically, that they have a D+ rating on <em> Yelp </em> . Bev is trying to make a <em> Yelp </em>account.</p><p>Bill and Mike are talking about something, Eddie’s sure. Books, probably. But it doesn’t matter because Richie, who’d been leaning vicariously over Bev’s shoulder, dictating, has glanced up. Their eyes snag together and Richie does this little half-smile thing. It goes directly to Eddie’s chest and stays there. </p><p><em> I love you </em>. He bites down hard, teeth clicking, and the words just kind of sit at the tip of his tongue, bleeding. He must have made a face because Richie looks briefly confused before he’s pulled back into conversation. </p><p>California has a lot of assets. Its real kicker is Richie Tozier does not live there. </p><p>Eddie loves him so much it makes his bones ache. Every time he opens his mouth, the words threaten to tumble out. He has this great big want inside of him and it's a bit like a feral animal. Eddie wants Richie so bad he thinks he’ll die of it.</p><p>Richie is straight, though. In, like, the most obvious, needless way possible. </p><p>And Eddie is closeted. Which. It doesn’t even matter that he’s gay at this point. It matters more that he chose the shittiest person to be gay <em> for </em>. </p><p>(He smokes, for one. He always smells like Marlboros and what Eddie imagines is the accumulation of teenage hormones and an aversion to showering. </p><p>He’s loud. He breathes through his mouth and talks through his food. He knows how to annoy Eddie to the point of blind rage.)</p><p>It doesn’t matter though, Eddie tells himself. July 23rd he’s leaving an Eddie-sized hole in Derry, Maine and Richie can eat his dust.</p><p> </p><p>“This is sad,” Eddie states plainly. “No. Like. This is actually very sad.”’</p><p>Richie isn’t even paying attention to him. He’s watching Greta Bowie play musical chairs in the front of their English class. Greta Bowie and her stupid fucking highlights. Whatever. </p><p>Richie didn’t play because Eddie wasn’t. Eddie is smug about this for a half-second until he realizes you can see a small portion of Greta’s ass whenever she goes to sit down. Eddie has to restrain from rolling his eyes. </p><p>
  <em> We get it Richie. You collect porn magazines and jack off to Molly Ringwald. </em>
</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Eddie’s head snaps up. “What?”</p><p>Richie snorts and reaches over to ruffle his hair. Eddie bats his hand away. “You said something, silly-goose,” he says and knocks lightly on Eddie’s temple. “Are the lights on up there?”</p><p>Eddie leans away from him with a scowl. “Fuck off. I said,” he starts, flipping over his yearbook so Richie can see, “this is <em> sad </em>.”</p><p>Richie stares at it blankly. “What? The loving letters your friends wrote for you?” he asks. “Especially the one with the very intricate, and might I add, artistically immaculate drawing of a man’s genitalia? A real specimen, that one is.”</p><p>Eddie groans. “You have the humor of a twelve year old, Richie. And I’m ripping that page out, by the way, before my mom can see it—”</p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, she sees it every night—”</p><p>“I’m <em> talking </em> about,” Eddie says over him, “how I literally don’t have any signatures.”</p><p>Richie shrugs like he doesn’t understand and kind of wants to get back to Greta’s thigh gap. “You have ours.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, that’s very cool,” Eddie drones. “Me and my six friends.”</p><p>“What? You don’t like us or something?”</p><p>Eddie wants to snap his glasses in half. “I <em> mean </em>, it would be kind of nice if I knew people outside of our group. I don’t know anyone at this school and, apparently, no one knows me either because not one person has asked to sign my yearbook.”</p><p>Richie looks at him like he couldn’t care less. Like Eddie is doing one of his Things again, one of his I’m Eddie Kaspbrak and I’m Dramatic Things. He might be, fine whatever. But it’s <em> sad, </em>okay? </p><p>When Eddie was twelve he thought for sure high school was going to be some spiritual awakening. He’d come out of it hotter, cooler, and with a gaggle of friends that went beyond a dude who was unironically titled Trashmouth. </p><p>He’s neither hotter or cooler, and he’s now lusting after the dude named Trashmouth. Eddie has officially glowed <em> down </em>. That’s fucked. That shouldn’t even be possible.</p><p>“Yearbook signings are arbitrary anyway,” Richie shrugs. He glances to Greta and Eddie snaps a finger in front of his face. Richie snaps a finger in front of <em> his </em>face. “They’re just a stupid popularity contest that doesn’t even fucking matter ten years later. Like what? You’re going to brag to your kids about all the signatures you got? Bet.”</p><p>“I won’t be able to brag to my kids,” Eddie says, frowning, staring down at his mostly blank signature page. The dick Richie drew is honestly <em> way </em>too detailed. Eddie begs to God he didn’t draw from reference. “My kids are going to think I’m a fucking joke.”</p><p>“You literally missed my entire point.”</p><p>“<em> My </em> point is,” says Eddie, snapping his head up, “that I haven’t done one thing worth of note during high school. And everybody else thinks so too, <em> obviously </em>,” and he makes a sweeping gesture at the several blank pages. </p><p>“That’s not true,” Richie says and taps a finger at Bev’s passage, written in blotty ink and a messy handwriting. “You let Bev pretend your inhaler was a vape. That’s pretty fucking cool, Eds.”</p><p>Eddie snaps the book closed and Richie has to jump back to avoid his finger getting eaten. “Don’t call me that,” he says because he hasn’t said that in a while. “And I didn’t <em> let </em> Bev. She stole it, <em> right in front of me </em>, while I was having an asthma attack.”</p><p>Richie grins. He leans back in his chair so the front legs sway unsteadily in the air. Eddie thinks, briefly, about kicking the chair out from under him. “To be fair, you were using your asthma attack to get out of a pre-calc test.”</p><p>Eddie feigns ignorance. “I don’t <em> fake </em>asthma attacks.”</p><p>Richie considers him for a moment, staring in a way that makes Eddie shy, before snapping his chair down. He pinches both of Eddie’s cheeks aggressively. “You’re so fucking cute, it drives me <em> wild </em>.”</p><p>“Hands to yourself, Tozier!” Mr. Pullman says from across the room. Then the music stops and everyone gets a good look at Greta’s underwear. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 12:05 P.M. </em>
</p><p>“How often do you fake your asthma attacks?” Stan asks seriously, taking a bite of a carefully sliced apple.</p><p>“That’s not the reason — I <em> don’t </em>—”</p><p>“Because if you d-dddo, that’d be p-pr-pretty f-fucked up,” Bill nods.</p><p>Bev is smiling behind her fist. “Yeah, Eddie, asthma is a very serious condition. It wrecks thousands of American lives daily.”</p><p>Eddie groans, rolling his eyes so far back he’s surprised they don’t stick there. “Fuck you all,” he says simply. “I’m trying to have a serious discussion.”</p><p>Richie pats him on the back as he takes a seat, balancing a cardboard plate with two pizzas, an apple, and a slice of pumpkin pie (the school says it's in celebration for seniors going away, but Eddie knows that shits been sitting in the fridge since Thanksgiving.) Richie can and will devour everything on that plate, Eddie knows, and he’s back to questioning what traumatic event made him associate Richie Tozier with sex. </p><p>“Everybody settle,” Richie mediates. “Eddie’s trying to have a heart-to-heart.”</p><p>“Fuck you too, Richie.”</p><p>“I’m siding with you!” Richie gasps and Beverly leans into Ben’s shoulder to laugh.</p><p>“I don’t fucking trust you,” snaps Eddie. He struggles away from Richie’s long limbs as he tries to finagle himself into a sitting position. </p><p>“Et tu and all that,” Richie says, waving his hands vaguely. “Think you know a guy.”</p><p>“Why do you care so much, anyway, Eddie?” Mike asks, who has scooted down to allow room for Eddie.</p><p>“Because,” Eddie says and cringes away as Richie intentionally knocks knees with him, “I thought high school would be better.”</p><p>“You have UCLA to make up for that,” Ben says kindly from across the table. </p><p>Bev nods sagely. “High school being the ‘best four years of your life’ is just a bunch of bull adults feed us in order to make us go,” she says.</p><p>Richie raises his hand for a high five. “Fuck the man, that’s what I say!”</p><p>Stan snorts. “<em> Is </em> that what you say, Richie?”</p><p>“If you ever paid attention to me, Stanny,” Richie pouts, “maybe you’d know.”</p><p>Bill shakes his head fondly. “I ca-can’t b-bbelive you got into N-NYU.”</p><p>Richie shrugs and takes a massive bite of one of his pizzas. </p><p>Eddie picks indifferently at his grapes. “I know high school doesn’t really matter,” he accedes, “but it would’ve been nice to end with memories that weren’t just studying, avoiding my mom, and clocking in at 7 P.M. on the dot, you know? It feels like I haven’t been a teenager.”</p><p>They all fall into a contemplative silence. </p><p>“I’ll take you to Greta’s party,” Richie says after a minute.</p><p>Bev looks immediately concerned. Which is a massive red flag. “Did you get invited, Richie?” she asks, surprised.</p><p>Richie pops one of Eddie’s grapes into his mouth, grinning. “Jealous, Marsh?” he counters and raises his brows. </p><p>“<em> Fuck </em> no,” laughs Bev. At Eddie’s confused face, she explains: “You think Greta’s bad now, Eddie, wait until you see how she <em> parties </em>. It’s a complete shit show.”</p><p>“Oh. Fun,” Eddie says slowly. He looks side-ways to Richie. “I don’t think that’s my speed, Rich.”</p><p>“Y-you’re right,” Bill says and gives Richie a disapproving look that only Bill could give without being called out. “Greta’s parties always end badly for everyone involved.”</p><p>Eddie blinks. “You’ve gone to one of her parties, Bill?”</p><p>Bill shrugs.</p><p>Eddie looks around among his friends. “Who’s else has gone to one of her parties?” he asks carefully and watches, in dawning horror, as all of them raise their hand. “<em>Stan </em>?” he asks, appalled.</p><p>“I stayed for a minute and it sucked,” Stan replies. He shudders, “dirty,” and doesn’t elaborate.</p><p>“And you Ben, <em> really </em>?” </p><p>Ben seems disappointed in himself too. “It’s not worth it, Eddie. You won’t like it.”</p><p>Richie clears his throat dramatically. “Tuh-tuh, Benjamin,” he says, waving a slice of pizza around like a delicate scepter. “Let our darling Edward decide his fate for himself.”</p><p>They all turn to him.</p><p>Eddie thinks his choice is pretty fucking clear. </p><p>Eddie’s been living a sheltered, domed-in life for eighteen years. He carries around a first aid kit like a walking clinic, for God's Sake. If he plans on leaving for California, experiencing real college life, he’s gotta get some tools under his belt. </p><p>He hasn’t even had his first real kiss yet. </p><p>(There was that one time in 1st grade when Hannah Margaery and him bumped lips when he was reaching for his cubby. He’d gone to the bathroom to clean his face almost immediately. His mother had told him about the dangers of contracting mononucleosis.)</p><p>“I’ll go,” he says and everyone but Richie groans.</p><p>Richie fist bumps the air and flips off the Losers instead. “Don’t you worry, Spaghetti Head,” he promises, swiping the dollop of whip cream from his pumpkin pie and smearing it onto Eddie’s nose. “I’ll protect you from the scary party monsters.”</p><p>Eddie wipes the cream from his nose with a napkin Stan hands him, wondering if spending the night with Richie might be a self-destructive notion.</p><p>Then he freezes. “My mom,” says Eddie.</p><p>“Love of my life, yeah, what about her?” Richie asks, spooning a mouthful of pie down his throat.</p><p>Eddie gives him a disgusted look. For the mom joke and the pie deepthroating business. “My <em> mom </em>,” he repeats more clearly. “No fucking way is she letting me out.”</p><p>“Can’t you just lie and say you’re hanging out with us?” Ben says. “I mean, it's the last day of school.”</p><p>“You seem to forget who my mother is, Ben,” Eddie groans. “She barely even likes you guys, no less Richie —” Richie raises a hand for a high five and Bev happily supplies it “ — and she’s been making this huge fucking deal recently about how I’m ‘slipping away’ from her. No way is she letting me out, even if it’s the day before graduation.”</p><p>Stan raises his brows. “You still haven’t told her about UCLA?”</p><p>Eddie snorts like Stan’s lost his fucking mind. Which he <em> has </em>. “Of course I haven’t. She’d flip her shit. Probably stuff me in a tower somewhere far and dark,” Eddie says bleakly.</p><p>“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” Richie smiles, looking thoughtful.</p><p>Eddie ignores him. “She still thinks I’m going to that Methodist college in Bangor.”</p><p>“The one that’s a legit cult?” Bev says in a supportive, but <em> yikes that sucks </em>kind of way.</p><p>“You’d have to grow out your hair,” Richie says suddenly, reaching out and tugging a curl at the back of Eddie’s head. Eddie glowers, catching his wrist and forcibly returning it to his body. Richie grins wide and brilliant. “They call me a madman,” he says, “but I’m a goddamn genius.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Stan says, polite as he cuts into a sandwich. </p><p>Richie claps his hands together, then throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and pulls him tight against his side. Eddie elbows him in the ribs. “I just solved our problem, Eddie baby,” he says cheerfully. “I’m gonna Rapunzel the <em> fuck </em>out of you!”</p><p>“Ew, what?” Eddie mutters, successfully escaping his grip. </p><p>“Oh,” Ben says, nodding and pointing, “he’s going to sneak you out of your room.”</p><p>“That’s your genius idea?” Eddie asks drolly. “My bedroom’s on the second story, dipshit.”</p><p>Richie shrugs, takes a smug bite from his pie. “That didn’t stop Romeo.”</p><p>“Wait,” Mike cuts in, confused, “is Eddie Rapunzel or Juliet. Which damsel?”</p><p>“Y-you’re gg-getting your a-allusions confused, Richie—”</p><p>Eddie makes an affronted noise. “I’m <em> not </em>a damsel.”</p><p>“You’re right!” Richie agrees just as the bell for lunch ending rings. “You’re <em> my </em>damsel, Eds.”</p><p>
  <em> Oh shut the fuck up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 3:00 P.M. </em>
</p><p>It’s still raining. The clouds are dark and mean looking in the sky. That’s probably a bad omen or something.</p><p>“I don’t really need to go,” Eddie says as Richie pulls to the curb a block away. “I’ll just, like, jump in the quarry this summer and have that be my fun teenage thing.”</p><p>“Fuck that,” Richie says easily. Eddie envies his carelessness. He wants to scrape some of it off and keep it in a jar for himself. “We’re getting you your coming-of-age story, Eddie. Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to it.”</p><p>Eddie laughs. He leans his head back against the car cushion, thinking. “I can’t believe everyone’s been invited to one of Greta’s parties except me,” he sighs. “How the fuck does Greta even <em> know </em>Ben? I’ve been in her science classes for the past four years. I practically taught her stoichiometry. What the fuck.”</p><p>“People don’t really get invited,” Richie says. “You just hear about it and sneak in mostly.”</p><p> Eddie knows what Richie wants him to ask.“Why’d you get invited then?”</p><p>Richie lets out a happy sigh and leans back with Eddie. “After Pullman’s class, you were waiting outside for me remember?” Richie begins. “And I was packing up my stuff and she just, like, walked over to me and said, ‘do you want to come to my party tonight?’”</p><p>“Wow. Romance <em> isn’t </em> dead,” Eddie says dully.</p><p>Richie reaches over and flicks him above the ear. “I’m not the only one getting laid tonight, Eddie-boy, don’t you worry” he says, promises. “We’re checking off all the big ones.”</p><p>Eddie swallows past the lump in his throat, shoving away the mental image of Richie and Greta (<em>RichieandGreta </em>.) “The big ones?” he prompts. </p><p>The rain pounds hard on the windshield, slanting in sideways by the wind. Richie had turned off the wipers so everything outside is like looking through several layers of lenses. Blurry and disorientated. This is definitely a bad omen. Eddie’s mom used to be superstitious, and by proxy, Eddie. This is a cosmic sign, the rain. Rain in Derry is like a black cat crossing your path and then promptly eating your face off. Bad on all fronts. </p><p>“The big ones,” and Richie starts counting off his fingers. “Alcohol, obviously. Kissing —” <em> good to know that secret seems to be a broadcasted fact </em>“ — ooh, maybe drugs?”</p><p>“I’m not doing drugs,” Eddie scowls.</p><p>“Just like some weed?”</p><p>“I say no to drugs, thanks.”</p><p>“D.A.R.E really fucked you up, huh?” Richie sighs. “Fine, we’ll see how we’re feeling later then. Oh, what about driving? Do you wanna learn how to drive, Eds?” His voice has a sleepy, doting note to it . Eddie doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t want to see sleepy Richie, he sees regular Richie enough. </p><p>Eddie snorts. “With this car? Nope. I’ll pass. This is a death machine.”</p><p>Richie laughs, patting the dashboard affectionately. “Aw, c’mon, Eds. Mrs. K is always gentle the first time.”</p><p>“You’re a disgusting individual, do you know that?” Eddie says, biting down on a smile. He catches the time on the radio. 3:20 P.M. “I need to go.”</p><p>Richie makes a disgruntled noise. Like a whine. But he straightens up and turns on the ignition. Eddie pulls his jacket tighter, throwing on the hood. Just as Eddie reaches for the door to swing himself out, Richie grabs him by the wrist. </p><p>“I’ll be back by seven, okay?” he says. From the way Richie’s glasses left a small red crease outline on his cheek, Eddie realizes Richie was staring at him before, while they were talking. He feels something heavy drop into his stomach, but shakes it away. </p><p>“My mom will be downstairs watching T.V.,” warns Eddie. “So don’t be a dumbass.”</p><p>Richie just smiles, reaches up and tugs the tassels from Eddie’s hoodie tight so the fabric scrunches up around his face. “When have I ever?” he teases. </p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes .</p><p>When he steps out, shutting the door closed, Richie says happily, “Have fun on your walk! Don’t slip and die, kiddo!”</p><p>Eddie flips him off as he drives away. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 6:55 P.M - 9:02 P.M.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> 6:55 P.M. - 9:02 P.M. </em>
</p><p>He makes his mom a microwavable dinner and they eat in silence. Like they always do. His mom talking aimlessly, Eddie <em> uh-huh </em>ing when appropriate. </p><p>By five, his mom is sitting in the living room with a bowl of ice cream watching <em> Judge Judy </em>. He tiredly asks her if he can go to bed, stacking on a yawn to play it up.</p><p>Her head snaps up and he should’ve known she wouldn’t go down easy. “Why, honey?” she asks, voice cracking. “Are you feeling dizzy? I don’t want you stressing about tomorrow. If you’re not feeling well, I’ll just ask the principle to mail us the diploma and—”</p><p>“No, Ma,” he says, cutting her off gently. “I just feel tired. I’m fine. It was a busy day.”</p><p>She narrows her eyes. From where she’s sitting in her recliner, she looks like some old England king, staring haughtily down at him. “I feel like you’re being distant, Eddie-bear,” she says, her voice going that sugary sweet way.</p><p>When he was younger, he loved that voice. It made him think of heated blankets and hot cocoa and sniffling noses that Ma could always cure. Now, though, standing eleven years older and wiser, the sound just reminds him of liquid medicine. Syrupy, thick, suffocating. The type of shit that sticks in your throat and chokes you out. </p><p>Eddie loves her. He does. He can love her with 3,000 miles between them, though. </p><p>“You’re my baby, do you know that?” asks his mom. There’s a dried drop of chocolate ice cream on her chin. Eddie stares at it resolutely. “You’re my baby and I love you. I don’t want you going anywhere I can’t protect you.”</p><p>“I know, Ma.” Appease. Mollify. That’s all he has to do for three more months then off comes the band aid and he’ll deal with that when it comes. “I love you too.”</p><p>She smiles. “That’s all I want to do, Eddie-bear. I just want to protect you.”</p><p>Eddie nods. He feels suddenly very alone and cold, standing in the archway into the living room. His shadow falling across his mother’s face in one great big sweep. He’ll break her heart. She loves him so much, and he’s going to rip the rug out from under her.</p><p>He’ll be leaving this childhood sanctuary. Even if it wasn’t really a sanctuary, after all. More like incubation, under the watchful, black eyes of his loving mother. Despite this, it’s going to hurt to leave her.</p><p>Sometimes the hurting is good, he tells himself. </p><p>There’s something warmer waiting for him. He has to believe there’s something warmer waiting for him.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie is running his fingers over the plane ticket’s edge, staring at the word California until it’s just a bunch of letters. There’s a sudden, loud <em> thwap </em> against his window and he jumps. </p><p>He stuffs the ticket back into its envelope and shoves it under his mattress. When he scrambles up, throwing open the window, Richie is below with a handful of gravel cradled in his palm. The rain had thankfully stopped a while ago, but the sky is still heavy with something. It’s just dark enough that Eddie can make out the outline of Richie’s face.</p><p>“But, soft!” Richie calls up, throwing a hand across his chest, and the gravel scatters out around him. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is—”</p><p>Eddie shushes him. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses down, nearly leaning out of his window. Richie just grins up at him. “Did you seriously memorize that monologue?”</p><p>“No, I just got that shit down, Spaghetti,” Richie scoffs. “I’m a romantic at heart, what can I say?”</p><p>“Okay, then, dipshit. What’s your big plan, then?”</p><p>“That’s not your line.”</p><p>Eddie groans, burying his face in his hands. “Richie, any second now my mom is going to hear you spewing bullshit and she’s gonna—”</p><p>“No, no, no,” Richie says, waving his arms about and cutting him off. “You say O, Romeo, O Romeo — yadda yadda boring boring —”</p><p>“You really capture the nuances of Shakespeare’s work.”</p><p>“ — and then <em> I </em>come in with this big, sweeping gesture, Eds,” Richie ignores him, “and I’m all like,” and of course, the British Accent, “see, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”</p><p>Eddie awkwardly moves his hand away from his cheek, choosing instead to just cross them over his chest. <em> That’s not fair </em> , he thinks, biting on his tongue. <em> You don’t get to act out the balcony scene with me then go fuck Greta Bowie, you shithead. </em></p><p>“Pretty snazzy, huh?” Richie grins. </p><p>“Are you done? Or are we gonna go through <em> Macbeth </em>too?”</p><p>“Yuck,” Richie says, making a face and Eddie rolls his eyes. “Boring. Do you think I can scale this thing?” He waves up and down the siding leading to Eddie’s window. There’s some trellis where roses, brown and crunchy with death, used to crawl up. </p><p>“I think that’s a question you should’ve thought of already,” Eddie says. He keeps checking his door to make sure he can’t hear his mother coming. </p><p>“<em> We </em> , Eddie my beloved,” Richie corrects, hooking a hand around one of the trellis knots and shaking it. There’s a little give and it makes Eddie cringe. If Richie breaks his neck trying to sneak him out, Eddie is going to seize. “This is a <em> we </em> project.”</p><p>“But <em> you </em> are climbing the wall.”</p><p>Richie pauses. “Why the fuck <em> am </em>I climbing the wall? Just come down, pussy.”</p><p>“Shakespeare could never capture the romance in that,” Eddie replies, bored. “And I can’t because, I need to quote-unquote, ‘Ferris Bueller my room,’ and apparently I can’t do that without your help.”</p><p>“Right. It’s a very tactical operation.”</p><p>“It’s stuffing pillows under my comforter, Richie.”</p><p>“That’s exactly why I wouldn’t expect you to get it,” Richie intones seriously. “It’s a type of art you wouldn’t understand.”</p><p>“Climb up then, pussy,” Eddie snarks.</p><p>Richie flips him off. He stares hard at the trellis, asks, “How old is this?”</p><p>“Older than your mom. Are we doing this or not, Richie? I’m about ready to shut this fucking window and just clock out,” Eddie lies. </p><p>Richie, goaded enough apparently, jumps onto the trellis. He grabs hold of the open knots and begins to climb, and then a part of the wood snaps off and Richie goes tumbling onto the wet grass. </p><p>“<em> Shit </em>,” Eddie hisses. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“I think you understand the basics of the Ferris Bueller Operation to do it yourself,” Richie tells him, laying across the grass, spread-eagled. Eddie snorts.</p><p>There’s a rumbling from downstairs. “Eddie-bear?” his mother calls up, and Eddie shuts the window with a click. </p><p>He rushes to his door, cracking it open to ask, “Yeah, Ma?”</p><p>“Are you alright? Are you going to sleep?”</p><p>“I’m fine. I was just about to get into bed,” he says.</p><p>“I love you, Eddie,” she says, voice echoing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 7:10 P.M. </em>
</p><p>The Ferris Bueller is neither tactical nor an art. It takes Eddie less than three minutes to stuff a few pillows under his blankets, mold them into a vaguely human shape, and turn off the light.</p><p>He gives Pillow Eddie one last glance over before he swings a leg over his window. He decided to snag his old fanny pack from his desk and stuff it with a first aid kit, his inhaler, and a snack. </p><p>Eddie knows he looks dorky with an oversized red, knitted sweater stuffed under a tan fanny pack and cuffed khakis. He immediately regrets his choice in clothes because, though the chill of rain is still thick in the air, there’s a heavy heat that’s simmering. He can feel his hair begin to curl and frizz as he climbs down.</p><p>He’s careful as he goes, relying more on the grooves of the siding than the molded wood of the trellis. Richie wouldn’t have broken it if he weren’t such a gangly, heavy mess. As Eddie drops to the soft grass, he shoves the snapped off trellis under a weedy bush. It’s not like his mom leaves the house much to notice, though.</p><p>“Sneaking out to wreck teenage rebellion?” Richie says, clapping his hands together. He lowers his voice at Eddie’s sharp look, but tags on, with the added gesture, “Check!”</p><p>Eddie kicks up wet mud at Richie in defiance. “This better be fucking worth it,” he says just to be contridicatory. </p><p>Richie, still just as messy-haired and outlandish as he had looked this morning, laughs. He sweeps Eddie into a hug and Eddie lets Richie toss him around a bit. “This is gonna be fucking <em> great </em> ,” Richie says, arm around Eddie’s shoulder as he leads him to the sidewalk. “So much better than anything you’re gonna do in <em> California </em>.” </p><p>He uses his Surfer Voice for the last bit. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Eddie says listlessly. They duck around the windows that lead to Eddie’s living room and hop out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk. Eddie, feeling lighter and freer than he has in a hot second, skips over a crack in the sidewalk pavement. “California has sharks.”</p><p>Richie snorts, watching him walk ahead, swinging his car keys around his fingers. “Cali-Eddie’s a big fan of sharks, huh?”</p><p>Eddie shrugs, smiling back at him. “Dunno. I might be.”</p><p>Eddie turns back around too quickly to see Richie frown. </p><p>“Well, does California have <em> me </em>?” Richie asks casually. “A real deal breaker there, right?”</p><p><em> Maybe it isn’t </em>. But they’re at the Volvo and Eddie doesn’t have to respond.</p><p>Instead Richie tosses him the keys. “What?” Eddie starts, then, “Nope. I’m not driving —” and throws them back.</p><p>Richie laughs and hot potatoes it to Eddie again. “You gotta learn sometime, Eds,” he grins, and throws his arms wide. “No time like the present, either! With your good ol’ friend Richie Tozier to guide you!”</p><p>“I don’t want you guiding me anywhere,” Eddie smiles, but he’s staring at the keys thoughtfully. And well. They’re only in a neighborhood, he can’t do much harm. “Fine. But you can’t call it Mrs. K.”</p><p>Richie pats him on the back as he walks to the passenger side, swinging the door open. “Sonia it is, my friend.”</p><p>Eddie scowls.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 7:20 P.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie brakes too harshly and they both thrust forward, then are snapped back by their seatbelts. </p><p>“Eddie. Baby,” Richie says gently, teasingly, and Eddie wants to break his nose either for the condescension or the ‘baby,’ he hasn’t decided yet, “you have to speed up. We’re barely moving.”</p><p>“I’m being <em> safe </em>,” Eddie grounds out. “Who the fuck drives stick shift, anyway?”</p><p>“Wow, man. Don’t diss the car,” Richie whines, and rubs the dashboard consolingly. “He doesn’t mean it, baby.”</p><p><em> Great. I’m on the same level as the car now </em> . “Don’t talk to it like that, you fucking creep,” Eddie says, concentrating hard on when he’s suppose to pull the stick and <em> fuck </em> why were there three pedals again?</p><p>Eddie tries to break again but rolls into the middle of a four-way stop. “Shit,” he mutters. “What do I do? What if someone is coming—?”</p><p>Richie makes a show of looking around at the empty streets. He cups a hand around his mouth and lets out a staticy, radio voice, “It’s really bumper to bumper out here, folks! What with all these holidays and what-nots coming up!”</p><p>“Fuck off,” snaps Eddie, then lets out a dejected sigh. “Well, I gave it my best shot and got us fucking three houses down, so I’m just gonna call it quits right here.”</p><p>“No<em> nono </em>,” begs Richie, voice going puppy-like. “You’re doing fine, Eds, you just get so uptight when you can’t get something right first try—”</p><p>“That’s not true.”</p><p>Richie chuffs Eddie’s chin and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Here. I’ll help,” he offers.</p><p>“Nice to know you weren’t helping <em> before </em>,” Eddie mumbles, arms crossed, leaning back in his seat and away from the wheel. Fuck cars, you know? Eddie wasn’t a car guy. </p><p>Richie laughs again and it’s close enough to Eddie’s ear that Eddie has to still his entire body. “I will help <em> more </em>,” he smiles. “It’s easy, baby, I promise.”</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes. <em> I’m going to split your lip, Richie.  </em></p><p>Richie had maneuvered himself so he’s sitting with one shin balanced on the console, his other leg tucked beneath him. A position, Eddie thinks, that is not strictly safe when Eddie is behind the wheel. </p><p>“Okay,” Richie starts, and he tugs Eddie’s ear lobe, which is followed by Eddie smacking him away. “So you have your feet on the clutch and the brake, yeah?”</p><p>Eddie shrugs. “Sure.”</p><p>Richie makes a noise half-way between a laugh and sigh. He leans forward and Eddie freezes, shifting out of the way as Richie looks under his seat. “Yeah, you do,” he says. “Far left is clutch, middle is brake, right is accelerator.”</p><p>“Can we just switch?”</p><p>“No. I’m teaching you,” chides Richie. “Be a good student.”</p><p>Eddie tosses his hands up in defeat. “Whatever, asshole.”</p><p>Richie hums. “That’s Mister Tozier to you, Kaspbrak. So switch over to first gear,” he says, and takes Eddie’s hand from his lap, placing it on the lever. Eddie’s stomach turns inside out as Richie, hand overtop his, pushes the throttle in and shifts it to the topmost left. His hand is warm and big.</p><p>
  <em> Keep it in your pants, Kaspbrak. </em>
</p><p> “First gear,” Richie reiterates.</p><p>“First gear,” repeats Eddie. </p><p>“Okay, let off the brake a bit. Yeah, good. Now slowly let off the clutch, yup,” Richie says, relaxing back into his seat. “Now slowly accelerate as you do that.”</p><p>The car starts to roll forward and Eddie glances to Richie for affirmation, his hands an iron grip on the wheel. Richie gives him two thumbs up, looking amused. Where he’s leaning against the window, a streetlight is haloing his dark hair. </p><p>“I mean,” Richie laughs, “you can loosen the fuck up, Eds. It’s not going to explode. Worse you can do is just fuck up my car, which would be very sad, but I wouldn’t hate you for it.”</p><p>Eddie feels sick with loving him.</p><p>Then Richie says, “You ready to go to second base with Sonia, Spagheds?”</p><p>Fuck Richie.</p><p> </p><p>They end up turning on music (that’s blasted from Rich’s phone because his radio only reads discs) and Richie takes him a few more laps around an empty cul-de-sac until Eddie feels comfortable braking and shifting gears. Eddie is low-key freaking the fuck out. </p><p>He feels paranoid and nervous like his Palvolv reaction to disobeying his mom (who would be blanching at the thought that her son, her <em> Eddie </em> , is driving in a metal death trap with that <em> Tozier boy </em>) is to just delve head-first into a panic. But it’s nice, he guesses. To drive around. Richie’s become uncharacteristically calm, leaning comfortably into the passenger side and not saying much unless Eddie asks him a question. Like Richie’s Palvolv response to Eddie panicking is becoming sensible.  </p><p>At least, that’s what Eddie thinks he’s doing. He keeps playing songs Eddie likes, anyway.</p><p>Then Richie’s phone goes off and the music lulls. Richie straightens up, screen light reflecting off his glasses. Eddie slows down to a park.</p><p>“It’s Greta,” Richie says and Eddie feels that through his whole body. <em> Right </em>. “We should probably head out. Do you feel good driving?”</p><p>“You’ll get there quicker,” Eddie shrugs. Whatever soft, mushy feelings he was sending Richie’s way fizzles.</p><p>Richie seems to consider this then nods, and they switch places. “You ready to try your first sip of alcohol, Eds?” Richie asks, grinning, once he’s back in the driver’s seat. “I can’t wait to see you get shit-faced.”</p><p>“I am <em> not </em> getting shit-faced,” Eddie insists, buckling up. “I’ll try <em> one </em> drink and that’s it. I’m <em> experiencing </em>things, Richie. Not becoming an alcoholic.”</p><p>“Right,” Richie nods seriously. “We have to build up to that. Can’t be jumping the gun too quickly, we got your whole life ahead of you. Gotta save the alcoholism for the real important stuff like loveless marriage.”</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes. “Just drive, asshole.”</p><p>“Aye, aye,” Richie salutes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 8:00 P.M.  </em>
</p><p>Greta lives in the rich part of town which is expected. </p><p>Her house can be seen from a mile away, or at least <em> heard </em>. The second they pull into the neighborhood, Eddie feels the low thumping of music reverberating off the ground. It makes him suddenly nervous. His first house party. </p><p>“Don’t tell me you’re gonna fuck off with Greta the minute we’re inside,” Eddie says suddenly. Her house is coming up. It’s emblazoned with lights, standing like a beacon among the other dead houses. A trail of cars clog the street.</p><p>Richie gives him an odd look. “What? Fuck no,” he says. “I’ve got to play the long game anyway.”</p><p>“Oh, the long game?” Eddie teases. “What does that include?”</p><p>“Ignoring her until she come finds <em> me </em>,” says Richie, like that’s a genuinely good plan.</p><p>“And asshole of the year award goes to.”</p><p>Richie pulls into a tight parking spot between two cars, shrugging. “That’s how the field is right now, Eds. The basketball’s in her court.”</p><p>“Field? Basketball?” Eddie laughs, concerned, as they step out of the car. “What sport is this exactly?”</p><p>The house is practically giving off heat. And Eddie can only imagine how hot it is inside because the air is humid to the point of sweating. He tugs at his sweater. People are outside lounging in the warm grass and passing cigarettes or red solo cups around. Up front, where the steps lead to the front doors, there’s a little crowd huddled. The door must be opened because Eddie can hear the music sift outside. </p><p>Richie comes up behind him, tossing an arm around his shoulder and throwing his other hand out in a grand, sweeping gesture. “The sport of <em> love </em>, Eddie Spaghetti! Isn’t that what we all play at some point?”</p><p>As they walk up, swerving around different groups to the front doors, Richie continues, in a commentary voice, which is deeper but not much different from his own, “Very confusing, Eddie. I’ll give you a word of advice, if you’ll take it—”</p><p>“I’ll pass thanks.”</p><p>“ — sometimes you gotta take the ball you have and run for it. Doesn’t even matter if you score.”</p><p>Eddie is reminded of Richie’s previous girlfriends, which were rare and far inbetween but still existent. Richie had always been careless with his affection. He wasn’t like Stan or Bill, or Ben even. He didn’t let things grow or fester. Maybe careless is the wrong word — Richie gives love freely.</p><p>Eddie had never been really jealous of his girlfriends. He had no reason to be. Richie isn’t Eddie’s. Watching him with girls is more of an annoyance than anything, a reminder of warmer, farther things where Eddie can maybe find someone worth being jealous over. Someone who’s his.</p><p>“Of course,” Richie continues, walking up the steps. “I never lose, so I don’t even have to worry about it.”</p><p>“Uh-huh, sure, Rich.”</p><p>“Do I sense doubt, Eds?” Richie asks, ruffling his hair. “That won’t do. And to prove you wrong, I will take on the ultimate challenge of getting <em> both </em>of us laid tonight!”</p><p>“I don’t want to get laid,” Eddie says honestly.</p><p>“We’re gonna get you kissed up, then, Eddie,” promises Richie.</p><p>Eddie glances at him, but doesn’t say anything to that. They’re at the steps now, but it’s practically a line. He can hear arguing closer to the door.</p><p>Richie bounces on the balls of his feet while Eddie stands next to him for approximately three minutes before Richie gets bored, grabs Eddie by the wrist and drags him forward. Eddie lets out a startled yelp as he’s pulled into a crowd of limbs.</p><p>There’s three other seniors (boys Eddie should probably know, but doesn’t) guarding the door. When Richie steps forward, Eddie scowling behind him, positive someone just spat on his shoe, one of the guys recognizes Richie.</p><p>“Trashmouth Tozier!” he hollers. He side-steps an angry-looking junior. Eddie glances around, they’re not letting people in. “What the <em> fuck </em>is up, dude!”</p><p>Richie grins back. He’s at least a head taller than this guy, who is stocky and meaty, probably on the football team. Eddie should definitely know him if he’s on the football team because of Mike, but he’s still drawing a blank.</p><p>“The service here is shit,” says Richie. “I’m about to take my business elsewhere.”</p><p>Football guy shrugs. “Outta drinks. No one else allowed in without a case. Quota system.”</p><p>“Shit. But you know me?” Richie tries.</p><p>Football guy shrugs again, he looks like he might be high. “I’ll know you a lot better if you’ve got a case of beer.”</p><p>“I’ve got, like, a reservation, though, man,” Richie says, raising his voice as the inside picks up volume and the small crowd outside contemplates with louder, disgruntled shouts. “Can you go get Greta?”’</p><p>“It’s Greta’s rules,” he states.</p><p>Then Richie and Eddie are being tousled back by the crowd. Richie grabs hold of Eddie’s forearm and they bounce down the steps.</p><p>“So, what now?” Eddie’s kind of relieved. He’d rather be sitting in Richie’s car somewhere.</p><p>“Now we get beer.”</p><p>Eddie stops on the walkway down to the parked car. Richie stalls beside him. “Richie, we’re eighteen. We don’t have IDs.”</p><p>“<em> You </em>don’t have an ID,” Richie grins, pinching his cheek. By the end of the night Eddie’s going to be bruised. “I’ve got secrets you haven’t even touched yet, baby.”</p><p>
  <em> Oh, bet, Tozier. </em>
</p><p>“When the fuck did you get a fake ID?” Eddie has to call it out to him because Richie’s already swivelled around walking towards the Volvo.</p><p>“Bev and I did it last year,” Richie shrugs once Eddie’s caught up. “Got bored, wanted a drink.”</p><p>“That’s illegal.”</p><p>“Holy shit, is it?” Richie drolls. “You’re really blowing my fucking mind right now, Eds.”</p><p>“I <em> mean </em> ,” Eddie snaps, ducking into the car as Richie opens the door for him, “you could get <em> caught </em>. And go to, like, jail, probably.”</p><p>Eddie isn’t fully aware about the legal issues surrounding fake IDs (because he wouldn’t even <em> dare </em>) but he assumes they’re pretty bad.</p><p>Richie leans over, arms resting on top of the open door. “Uh-uh-uh,” he tuts, booping Eddie’s nose. “This is a <em> we </em>project, my friend. If I’m in the slammer, you bet your ass you’re in there with me.”</p><p>“This is peer pressure,” Eddie says lamely once Richie is pulling out of his space.</p><p>“Nah. This is friendship!”</p><p><em> Worse </em>.</p><p> </p><p>They’re parked under the seedy lights of the gas station as Richie rummages through his glove department. Eddie is staring at the cashier who’s inside. He looks about twenty, but his hair is reclining in a great V shape up his forehead, and he’s leaning onto the counter scrolling through his phone. </p><p>“Have you ever done this before?” Eddie asks.</p><p>Richie makes an <em> a-ha! </em>sound and pulls out an old, leather-bound wallet. “Done what?” he says, flipping it open.</p><p>Eddie gives him the dryest look he can muster. “Used your ID before, you dumbfuck,” Eddie snaps. His knee is bouncing, hitting the dashboard enough that it's beginning to hurt. Eddie is fine sneaking out from his mother’s house, fine with driving without a license, he’s even fine drinking illegally in some girl’s basement — but fucking around with felonies and misdemeanors seems a bit out there. </p><p>More than out there. If they get caught, fined, and jailed Eddie is <em> never </em>going to see the light of day. His mom might actually pull a Rapunzel. She’ll chain him up, force-feed him chicken noodle soup, and probably (definitely) kill Richie. </p><p>“Has it worked before?” Eddie prompts again. </p><p>“Oh, yeah,” and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief, “I think so anyway.”</p><p>“Fucking <em> what </em>?”</p><p>Richie laughs, light and careless, like he’s not legitimately insane. “We never got around to actually using it. We always just took shit from Bill’s dad’s cabinet,” Richie says, he snags the ID from the wallet and waves it before Eddie’s nose. “Chill out, Eds. It’ll be easy-peasy. We’re in, we’re out. Like fucking theives.”</p><p>“We might as well be,” Eddie mutters, slapping Richie’s hand away. “We’re practically stealing.”</p><p>“We’re not <em> stealing </em>. We’re going to pay the dude,” says Richie. “He’ll just be aiding and abetting some minors!”</p><p>Eddie shudders, frowning. “I feel like a criminal,” he whispers. He will be, anyway. </p><p>Richie makes a pleased noise and pokes Eddie’s side. “Cutest fucking criminal I’ve ever seen,” Richie swears.</p><p>“Maybe I should just stay in the car,” Eddie says desperately, ignoring him.</p><p>Richie shakes his head. “That’s a no go,” he states, reaching over to unbuckle Eddie’s seatbelt pointedly. “First off, we’re a dynamic duo, so you legally <em> have </em>to come. Second, Sonia loves you, kid, but I don’t think she wants you inside her.”</p><p>“Gross.” Eddie scrunches up his nose. </p><p>As they’re walking up to the doors, yellow-y artificial light streaming down on them, Richie says, “I’ll do the talking. You don’t even have to stand next to me.”</p><p>The door is swung open with a cheerful jingle and the cashier glances up, giving them a pressed, bored smile. Richie gives him a happy little wave and guides Eddie down one of the aisles. </p><p>Eddie remembers something. “What about the surveillance cameras?” Eddie says suddenly. “They’ll catch us for sure.”</p><p>Richie grabs him by the shoulders, backing him up against a shelf of candy. “Eddie,” he says seriously, then motions to breathe in deep and out, “you gotta <em> believe </em>, man. It’ll all be A-okay. Also, those cameras haven’t worked in, like, seven years.”</p><p>Eddie groans, shaking him off. “Just go and do it already before I vomit.”</p><p>Richie grins, pinches Eddie’s nose, and slips deeper into the aisle. Eddie watches him slip out a case of Coors Light from the glass doors and head back to the register. He winks to Eddie as he passes. </p><p>Eddie pretends to sift through a box of butterfingers. </p><p>“Hiya,” Richie says, grinning, and placing the Coors on the counter before the cashier. He glances down. “Mark?”</p><p>“Yeah,” the cashier says, picking up the box and scanning it. He narrows his eyes at Richie. “ID?”</p><p>Eddie grows cold, glancing back at them. Richie shrugs nonchalantly. “Sure thing, man,” he says, slips out the wallet and faces it to the cashier. “Dull night?”</p><p>The cashier hums conversationally, taking the wallet from Richie’s fingers. “I hate late shifts,” he notes while glancing down at the ID.</p><p>“I used to work at the 7/11 by Main Street,” says Richie, sounding all in the world like this is a completely normal, daily conversation. “Hated it. Boring as shit.”</p><p>The cashier smiles and Eddie hates how easy Richie can get the things he wants. “Another fellow soldier,” the man laughs, handing back the wallet. Richie snaps it closed and slips it back into his pocket with a salute. “That’ll be 6.55—”</p><p>The door jangles open again and Eddie might actually vomit for real. His whole insides shrivel up because walking in, worn, dirty jeans tucked into cowboy boots and a thick flannel, is Henry fucking Bowers. Another excellent reason to get the fuck out of Dodge. </p><p>From where Richie is leaning against the counter, Eddie can see him visibly freeze, tilt his head away and begin counting out change. <em> Hurry the fuck up, Richie </em>, Eddie begs soundlessly.</p><p>Bowers dropped out of high school before the Losers even entered, which was a God send. He works at his father’s old farm and usually keeps to himself, but once a bully always bully. Eddie remembers in 3rd grade when Bowers had shoved his face in dirt during recess, holding Eddie’s inhaler far above his head and laughing. He’d gotten expelled of course, but that just meant Eddie had become a bigger target. </p><p>Bowers strolls in blindly, slipping around back towards the beef jerky. Richie’s shoulder slouches in relief and he pulls out a few dollars, quickly handing them to Mark. Then,</p><p>“Holy <em> shit </em> ,” Bowers says, back-tracking. His boots make a sharp, clicking sound on the linoleum. “Is that fucking <em> Trashmouth </em>?”</p><p>Eddie freezes, scooting forward a bit. Richie doesn’t look back at him. “Hey man,” he says instead, happily. “Long time, no see, amiright?”</p><p>Bowers works his jaw, laughing something mean. “Yeah, no shit.” His eyes sweep around and they snag on Eddie. Eddie’s stomach drops. Bowers grins, nodding to himself. “Still dragging around that faggot, huh—”</p><p>“Woah, man,” the cashier interrupts. “Cut that shit out.”</p><p>Richie’s knuckles, clutching the wallet, go momentarily white and then he tosses the remaining money to the cashier. “Keep the change,” he says, voice thick. He grabs the Coors and makes a motion for Eddie, but Eddie has already scrambled to his side, allowing Richie to grip him by the elbow and start towards the doors. </p><p>But Bowers is behind Richie and spins him around. “You’re fucking eighteen,” Bowers smiles blithely, then looks to Mark, who’s been watching them nervously. “Did you know that? They’re fucking eighteen.”</p><p>Richie shrugs him off. “Just fuck off, you fucking hick,” Richie rolls his eyes. “Isn’t there some pig getting wet for you at ye old prairie?”</p><p><em> Oh Richie </em>. </p><p>Henry’s face goes very red. The cashier says carefully, “If you’re minors, just leave the beer. I’ll give you your money back.”</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie says, reaching around him and grabbing the Coors from his fingers. Richie lets him. Eddie keeps a wide breadth from Henry, who’s staring daggers at Rich, as he places the beer back on the counter. “Let’s just go. This was a shit idea anyway.”</p><p>“You’ve got a big fucking mouth, Tozier,” Bowers says, low. And the room seems to become heavy with anticipation.</p><p>Richie leans back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Yeah? What do you want me to do with it, Henry?” he winks.</p><p>Eddie doesn’t even have time to groan before Henry’s fist comes up and down across Richie’s face. Richie trips back, glasses flying. His head does a funky hitched spin on his neck and Eddie cringes, jumping back. When Richie’s regained himself, the gas station now several degrees colder than before, he brings a hand up to his nose where a clout of blood starts to pour. He looks, curious and dazed, at his bloodied fingertips.</p><p>“Okay,” Eddie says quickly, trying to be as calm as possible, but his voice cracks like he’s fourteen again. “We’re leaving.” And makes to grab for Richie’s sleeve.</p><p>Just as Mark is saying, “I’ll call the police —”</p><p>Richie bows at Mark. One hand tucked beneath his chest, the other thrown out. “Not a dull night anymore, huh, Mark? Courtesy of the—”</p><p>Henry grabs him by the shirt and goes for another punch. Richie just in time ducks out of the way, stumbling back. “Calm the fuck down, man,” Richie says breathlessly, laughing.</p><p>Mark comes out from around the register as Henry makes another go, hand rearing back, but poor Mark gets caught half-way in the middle and the clenched fist hits him across the cheek. “Ah <em> fuck </em>,” Mark says, surprised and stepping back, hand to his cheek.</p><p>Richie gasps. “<em>Mark </em> ?” Richie says, aghast. “Really, Bowers, you hit <em> Mark </em> ? That makes me sick.” Then Richie turns to Eddie, smiling. “He hit the <em> Mark </em>,” and waggles his eyebrows.</p><p>Bowers shakes out his fist. “You don’t know when to shut the fuck up,” he growls.</p><p>Richie shrugs. “I shut your mother up last night—”</p><p>“Oh my <em> God </em> ,” pleads Eddie. This shit got boring in <em> middle school </em>. “Fuck off, Bowers. Do you really have nothing better to do than this? You’ve got a right hand, dipshit, use it and go fuck yourself.”</p><p>Richie grins around the blood on his lips. “Eddie gets one off,” he says cheerily. </p><p>“All of you get the <em> fuck </em>out,” Mark cuts in viciously. There’s a cut under his eye where one of Henry’s rings had scraped him. “Or I swear to God I’m getting all of you arrested.”</p><p>Henry seems to consider his options, then scowls. “Fucking fairy,” he hisses, ramming his shoulder into Eddie’s side as he passes. Eddie just breathes out, annoyed. Three more months, he tells himself. </p><p>Richie looks like he’s about to turn around and say something but Eddie stops him with a look. </p><p>“You too,” Mark says, waving his hand to the door where Henry just disappeared from. “Just get out.”</p><p>“But—” Richie begins.</p><p>“No. <em> Out </em>. I’m not kidding, dude. I don’t get paid enough for this shit. You’re lucky I’m not turning you in for having a bogus ID.”</p><p>Richie’s shoulders sag. He gives Eddie an apologetic look, which looks jarring contrasted with his bloodied nose and what is definitely going to be a bruise on his cheek come tomorrow. “Maybe we can find another way in,” he says, swiping the back of his hand across his nose.</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes. He’d rather not go back to Greta’s, but Richie is looking like a kicked puppy. So Eddie takes a big, exaggerated breath and says,</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>Richie gives him a once over. “Alright?”</p><p>“Holy shit, will you guys just <em> leave </em>?”</p><p>Eddie coughs heavily. “I’m having,” he gasps out, pulling at the collar of his sweater, “an a--attack.”</p><p>Richie takes a few steps forward, a knot in his brow. He angles Eddie’s face up, thumb on his chin, and shushes Mark who looks about ready to yell again. “He’s asthamtic,” says Richie and Mark quiets down. “You’re inhaler?” he prompts Eddie, calmer. “Is it in your—”</p><p>Eddie coughs into his fist, maneuvering away from Richie’s searching hands. “Forgot it,” he wheezes. </p><p>Richie pauses. Doubtful. “You forgot it?” he accuses.</p><p>Eddie makes a big show of coughing, bending at the waist. Mark shuffles nervously.“What… what do we need to do?” he asks, eyeing Eddie. </p><p>Richie’s about to speak, but Eddie interrupts him, taking a few steps back. “Water?” he gasps out. “Do you have water?”</p><p>Mark perks up. “Oh, yeah-yeah,” he says easily, relieved, and brushes past Eddie. “Let me just get it, just hold on.” And he heads towards the back of the store where the drinks are. </p><p>Richie makes a face. “<em>Water </em>?”</p><p>Eddie straightens up, glaring. “Just get the beer,” he hisses.</p><p>Richie blinks, then grins so wide Eddie thinks his face might split. “Ed-<em> die </em>!” he cheers and Eddie makes a cutting gesture across his throat. Richie lowers his voice, swooping back and grabbing the beer as they make a dash to the door. Eddie stoops down and swipes up Richie’s glasses as he goes.</p><p> “My boy, Eddie,” Richie says into Eddie’s hair, one arm flung around Eddie’s waist as he practically lifts him towards the car.</p><p>“Shut up,” Eddie blushes, pulling out of Richie’s grasp. “And hurry up.”</p><p>Eddie shoves the glasses into Richie’s hands before they take off, pulling out from the parking lot with speed. Richie laughs, “I fucking <em> knew </em>you faked your—”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up. It comes in handy,” Eddie sulks, shouldering the case of beer onto the console.</p><p>“Oh, I’m gonna get you <em> so </em>fucked up, Eds,” Richie promises, tapping a frantic beat on the wheel as they turn back into the neighborhood. “It’s gonna be the best night of your life.”</p><p>Richie parks and when he’s about to push out, Eddie stops him. “Is your nose okay?”</p><p>Richie looks momentarily lost, then touches a finger to the side of his nose. There’s dried blood caked down his upper lip and Eddie can see a cut that must have come from Henry’s ring. “Yeah, I’m too hyped up to feel anything, I think,” he says, picking at the flaky blood. “How do I look? Sexy?”</p><p>Eddie scowls. “No. You look like you just got beat up,” he says.</p><p>He reaches up, gently taking off Richie's glasses and setting them aside before rummaging in his fanny pack. He finds a packaged wet wipe and tears it open. Leaning across the console, Eddie begins to dab away the drying blood under Richie’s nose.</p><p>Richie sits still. Eddie can feel his breath on his hand, his gaze. “That was cool as shit, by the way,” Richie says suddenly and Eddie jumps at his voice.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Richie’s brows raise. “When you yelled at Bowers. You know, what he said, Eddie, it isn’t—”</p><p>“Why the fuck are these so dirty?” Eddie interrupts as he picks up Richie’s glasses. He takes the end of his sweater sleeve and wipes them clean the best he can. </p><p>“I did just get into a fight,” Richie offers, letting Eddie’s obvious diversion slide. </p><p>Eddie slips the glasses back up his nose. His eyes are darker than Eddie remembers them being, and when he starts to take his hand back, Richie reaches out and catches it. Slowly, carefully, he brings Eddie’s open palm to his lips and kisses it. Their eyes stay locked.</p><p>Eddie’s whole body turns hot and cold at once.</p><p>Richie drops his hand like he’s been burned, flinching back. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to say, in a shitty British accent, “Thanks, Doctor K!”</p><p>Then Richie is up and out of the car and Eddie is rubbing his hand on his pants. </p><p>Eddie could hate him for that, he thinks. If he really tried. </p><p>Because that wasn’t okay, was it? You weren’t allowed to do that.</p><p>You weren’t allowed to call him baby and kiss his palm and say he’s your boy and not mean any of it. It wasn’t fair, Richie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 9:02 P.M. - 1:15 A.M.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> 9:02 P.M. - 1:15 A.M. </em>
</p><p>A disease infested petri dish is about as accurate a comparison as Eddie can make. </p><p>It's hot, loud, and sweaty inside. Eddie is following close behind Richie as he plows through groups of teenagers that Eddie can only assume are multiplying because <em> holy fuck, </em>this is a fire hazard. No way is this crumbly, farmhouse certified to hold so many fucking people. </p><p>Sometimes Eddie has to grab the back of Richie’s sleeve in order to keep up. Eddie’d probably drown in heat and limbs if he fell behind. It doesn’t help that he’s at least a head shorter than half the people here. He keeps getting his face smashed against shoulders. </p><p> Some new football player was on watch when Eddie and Rich returned. They were bolstered in quickly on the wave of cheers and exclamations that arose when Richie, grinning and bruised, had held up the 12-pack.</p><p><em> Shit-show </em> , Bev had said. She’s partly right. The lights have all been dimmed down so the main rooms are thick with shadows and glinting phone screens. There’s trash piled up in corners. There’s couples <em> also </em> piled up in corners. It smells like sweat and beer. There’s this rhythmic thrum running through the rooms leading back to the radio somewhere in the living area, and when the two enter the kitchen, there’s a girl and guy shouting at each other in slurred voices before they break off into separate rooms.</p><p><em> I don’t belong here </em>, Eddie thinks, looking at the few people left crowded in the kitchen. With these kids, his age, but somehow different. More loud, more confident, more reckless.</p><p>“Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie says over the pulse of music, “whatever you are thinking: stop it.”</p><p>“Someone has to think for the both of us,” says Eddie on instinct. They’re apparently going to breeze past what happened in the car. Which, fine. What was he expecting from Richie? A fucking marriage proposal? “I’m pulling all the weight over here, Richie.”</p><p>Richie leans against a side of the island counter, snapping off two cans of beer and handing one to Eddie. It's tepid and heavy. “Eddie, my love, my darling-boy, my spaghetti,” Richie says extravagantly, “<em> no one </em>should be thinking tonight. This is a no-thinking zone, kid,” and he motions around the room, “breathe it in.”</p><p>Rich takes a big breath and Eddie watches him, picking idly at the can’s top. “Do you smell that?” Richie asks.</p><p>Eddie nods. “Yeah. Smells like hormones and early-onset alcoholism.”</p><p>“Yes,” Richie agrees, waving vaguely, “but also <em> fun </em>. Have you heard of that, Eds?”</p><p>“Yup, got it, Rich,” Eddie cuts in. “I’m lame. Is the speech over now?”</p><p>“Nope,” he says, “I’ve got a few more bullets to get through, actually. It's all very emotional —”</p><p>“I will drink if you shut up.”</p><p>“Fucking <em> deal </em>,” Richie grins.</p><p> </p><p>He sips at his drink, getting used to the bitter, carbonated taste that burns down his throat. It’s not very good.</p><p>“This isn’t very good,” Eddie says aloud. They’re still in the kitchen.</p><p>Richie glances back from the door. “Give it two more, buddy,” Richie says, “and you’ll be licking it from stranger’s fingers”</p><p>Eddie scrunches his nose up. He would <em> not </em>be doing that, thanks. “Does your brain have a stop button?” Eddie asks. “Or is it just loose wires up there?”</p><p>Richie clinks their drinks together, raising his brows suggestively. “Oh, I’ve got a stop button, Eds,” he says and Eddie’s already rolling his eyes, “only it’s a lever and also my dick—”</p><p>“Another zinger by Richie Tozier—”</p><p>“ — and it only works after you give it a few pumps,” Richie winks.</p><p>Eddie smiles around his drink. “Takes that long to get it up, huh, Rich?” Eddie asks innocently. “Have you tried viagra?”</p><p>“Go ahead and ask your mom, Eds, the only thing I need to keep going is my wild, animalistic drive,” he says.</p><p>Eddie leans away from him. “I hope to fuck you’re put down, Richie, before whatever brain-eating disease you’ve got starts to spread.”</p><p>“If I’ve got it,” Richie laughs, “you’ve got it too, Eddie Spaghetti. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine and all that,” he pinches the side of his cheek and Eddie groans, tilting his head away, “in sickness and in health. A zombie apocalypse couldn’t keep me away from you.”</p><p>“Bullet through the head would, though,” says Eddie mildly. “If it came to that.”</p><p>“<em>Ouch </em>,” Richie whines. “You’d shed a singular tear for me, though, right? And then sadly discover you can’t go through with killing me because I mean too much? So you let zombie-me eat you alive and it’s so gory and, like, blood is everywhere—”</p><p>“<em>Jesus </em>. Have you been, like, fucking planning this?”</p><p>Richie pats him on the shoulder seriously. “Only the parts where I eat you.”</p><p>“You imagine eating me?”</p><p>Richie scrunches up his face and pinches both of Eddie’s cheeks. “How could I not?” he says in a babying voice. “You’re fucking adorable.”</p><p>“Okay,” and Eddie steps out from under his hands, blushing, “shut the fuck up. You’re being obnoxious.”</p><p>Richie waves his hands in a <em> c’mon </em>gesture. “Thank you, Richie,” he prompts slowly.</p><p>“I’m not thanking you for being obnoxious,” Eddie frowns. From the corner of his eye, he can see a gaggle of girls stumble into the kitchen, laughing.</p><p>“No,” Richie shakes his head. “You’re thanking me for <em> complimenting </em>you.”</p><p>Eddie raises a brow. “When was that? When you were zombifying me or talking to me like a wet kitten?”</p><p>“Both.”</p><p>“Richie!”</p><p>They both swivel around and see Greta Bowie waving frantically at Richie. Eddie shrinks closer to the counter. Richie seems to physically vibrate. She’s wearing tight-fitting jeans and a tank-top. Her hair is a frizzy, blonde with dark streaks down it, and pulled away from her face in a pony-tail.</p><p>She rushes over. “You made it,” she says, clapping her hands together. When she’s close enough, she ropes both her arms around Richie’s neck and hugs him. He puts his hands on her waist and Eddie takes a long drink. “I totally thought you were gonna bail on me.”</p><p>Richie laughs, pulling away. “I’d be fucking insane,” Richie says.</p><p>Greta titters, her face taking on a pinkish tinge. Eddie spots a couple of her friends close by, watching. He rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I’m glad I found you,” she says. She has a raspy voice, a little high-pitched and uneven. “Do you wanna dance?”</p><p>“Okay,” he says and Greta takes him by the wrist, walking him backwards towards the door. She’s still talking about something. </p><p>It’s only when they’re about to leave that Richie swings around and finds Eddie. “Come dance, Eds,” he says. Greta looks temporarily surprised when she spots Eddie, like she didn’t notice him in the first place.</p><p>Eddie shrugs and waves him on. “I will later.”</p><p>Richie stares at him for a moment, frowning, then asks, “Just don’t — just have fun, right?”</p><p>“That’s the point,” he bites out and it's sharper, meaner than he intended. </p><p>Richie nods awkwardly, then lets Greta drag him through the doorway. </p><p>Eddie stands there, taking a sip of his drink. He allows himself a second of anger and sadness before he slams the rest of his beer and goes for another one. This isn’t about Richie, he reminds himself. </p><p>This is about moving the fuck on. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 10:00 P.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie is a goner. </p><p>Whatever inhibitions he’s been holding onto have up and vanished. He hasn’t been able to find Richie in a fat minute, but is starting to not care all that much. People are <em> talking </em>to him. People from his school, who he’s never known, but always seen in, like, Algebra and shit. </p><p>One guy asks him where he’s going and he says, “UCLA.”</p><p>They’re in the middle of the open-concept living room, the furniture pushed all along the walls. Eddie only vaguely wonders where Greta’s parents are, if they know their daughter is notorious for shit-faced parties. The guy, Derek or something, goes, “Oh, sick. California, right? That’s pretty cool.”</p><p>And Eddie happily agrees. They go on talking and Eddie raves about moving away, about his future dorms, who his roommate might be. Derek’s going to a small university in Oregon. </p><p>It feels nice, suddenly, to be acknowledged and known. </p><p>He feels light and fluffy, and he hasn’t thought about safety hazards in at least thirty minutes. Which is pretty big for Eddie. </p><p>He ends up shotgunning a drink. He finds himself in some backroom, not really remembering when he got there. But people are egging him on once he said he’s never done it before. </p><p>One girl says, cheering and laughing, “This is, like, a big deal, Eddie! It’s Eddie right, Eddie?”</p><p>He laughs. “Yeah, Eddie.”</p><p>“We’re your friends,” she promises and Eddie snorts at the stupidity of it. He doesn’t even know her name, but for whatever reason he agrees. In this moment, in this janky study room in Greta Bowie’s house, they <em> are </em>friends. Like the music and the alcohol and the uncomfortable warmth of everybody’s body heat has tied them together. </p><p>Some other guy, grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a friendly shake. “Have you done shots before?” he slurs out.</p><p>“<em>Ohmygod, Eddie </em>,” another girl shouts just as he’s about to respond. “Do a fucking body shot!”</p><p>The group cheers.</p><p>Eddie sticks with the shotgunning, but they end up chanting his name anyway. </p><p>He’s totally and completely wasted. Whatever he said to Richie about only trying <em> one </em> drink was a bold-faced lie. Apparently Eddie underestimated his restraint and probably his alcohol tolerance.</p><p>Eddie pushes his way back into the living room. The music is the loudest here. Hottest too, and he feels a line of sweat drag down his back. He needs to take off this fucking sweater, but the idea of bumping skin to skin with some of these kids is still vomit-inducing.</p><p>People jostle him back and forth into something that’s sort of like dancing. He’s too drunk to know if he’s any good at it and too drunk to actually care. The music blares and throbs inside his head. </p><p>Eddie could live in this. He could die in this. </p><p>This careless feeling, like his feet are ten feet above solid ground but there’s no weight of gravity in his chest. His mother isn’t here. Derry isn’t here. He isn’t stuck in his fucking room, alone and sad. If this is what college will be like, some endless stream of easy friendships and open houses and laughing, then Eddie has never been more ready. </p><p>He could be someone entirely different there. Like he is now. </p><p>No longer Eddie Kaspbrak with his inhaler and his wringing hands, no more waiting and burning. No more rain. Just light, light, light.</p><p>Then Eddie crashes. He’s totally (maybe) aware that he hadn’t actually been floating, and his feet haven’t actually hit the ground in record breaking speed, but he feels the crack in his knees anyway. Like all the night, bubbly air had been shoved out of him. </p><p>Forget chugging water to sober up, this will do just fine. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 12:20 A.M </em>
</p><p>Richie Tozier has his hands up Greta’s shirt. </p><p>Partly up. Just above her hips, riding up her tank-top to the waist.</p><p>Eddie sees them like a shot in a movie. The crowd breaks. The fog clears. The rain lifts. All of it. And then they’re there. </p><p>In snapshots.</p><p>Her hands in the mess of his hair, his mouth along the line of her collar bone, her lips pressed to the shell of his ear. She’s smiling, like she’s telling a joke.</p><p>Then everything comes down again. Everything returns to the loud, thrumming, chaos of pressed-in bodies and hot breath. A wave of nausea hits Eddie and he stumbles back into someone. He can still see them, when the crowd parts briefly in time with the beat of the music. </p><p>Greta reaches up and presses her thumb against his cheek. Where his bruise is. Richie says something and she laughs. </p><p>
  <em> How do I look? Sexy? </em>
</p><p>Eddie isn’t aware he’s biting down on his tongue until he tastes iron and lets out a shocked gasp. “<em> Shit </em>,” he mutters, swallowing hard.</p><p>It hides behind his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 12:27 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie is eighteen and he feels things so violently it scares him sometimes. </p><p>Like one day, he’ll wake up and all his Want and Need will burst from the little cage he’s trapped them in. The little hollow place in his chest. They’ll explode out, then fall back in, heavy with the weight of their own strength, and Eddie will collapse inward. </p><p>Eddie is Richie’s boy, but he is not <em> Richie’s </em>boy. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> 12:40 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie is stumbling down the stairs to the basement. He’s swallowed back and shoved down his rave of feelings.</p><p>Fuck it, you know? If Richie’s getting kissed then Eddie fucking deserves to be kissed too. Fucking <em> we </em>project, bitch. </p><p>Eddie takes a step off the stairs then realizes kissing someone isn’t a kind of one and done typa thing. He’ll have to choose someone and they’ll have to choose him back. He doesn’t even know why he went downstairs. Just that being in the same room as Richie is making him sickly.</p><p>The basement is only half-finished. Pink insulation is still lining the walls. Eddie scowls. That shits probably been in the air vents, he’s been breathing it <em> in </em>. Isn’t it dangerous to do that? Fuck Greta Bowie. </p><p>The carpet, though, is new and on it is a party of several or so people sitting in a circle. It's quieter down here. The beat of music, footsteps, and voices is a dull static noise from above. When he steps off the last step, the group all turns to him.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, deflated. The whole zen, interconnectedness shit he was on a few minutes ago has dissipated. He still feels drunk, though. Just a sicker, worse version of it.</p><p>A girl with short, orange hair clipped back with butterfly pins says carefully, “Hi. What are you doing down here?”</p><p>It must be a private thing, he thinks. But then one of them, a guy this time, says, “Do you wanna play with us?”</p><p>Another guy interjects, “We don’t know him.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Eddie starts, raising his hands palmward, “I was just—”</p><p>“No, no,” someone else jumps in. “Let him play. That way it’ll be even.”</p><p>The orange haired girl looks him over. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Eddie,” he says nervously.</p><p>“We’re gonna play spin-the-bottle-slash-seven-minutes-in-heaven,” she states, matter-of-factly, leaning back on the heels of her palms. She narrows her eyes at him and he has the distinct feeling he’s being judged. “Do you want in?”</p><p>Well, if Eddie wants to be kissed, he might as well. In lieu of answering, he squeezes in between two random kids. His hand-eye coordination is not great at the moment so he ends up accidentally elbowing someone on the way down.  </p><p>“Okay,” Orange Hair says. “So simple enough shit. We spin the bottle, whoever it lands on, we kiss for seven minutes. Good?”</p><p><em> Seven minutes?  </em>What the fuck. In front of everyone? Eddie doesn’t know shit about kissing. He’s about to stand up, leveraging his hands beneath him, but his whole vision goes blurry and wonky so he’s forced back down, blinking. Wow, being drunk fucking sucks, actually.</p><p>They make it all the way to Eddie without him having to kiss anyone on the spot. They’ve been setting a timer off on someone’s phone and each one Eddie’s been trying to hone in on what <em> exactly </em>they’re doing. He’s vaguely aware he looks like a creep, but his social ineptness seems to have dropped significantly. </p><p>But now it <em> is </em> his turn and Eddie isn’t sure he’s learned anything useful other than it looks fucking gross and <em> no thanks, no way am I swapping spit with some stranger </em>. And then the image of Richie’s lips against Greta’s throat makes him angry enough to reach over and twist the beer bottle around.</p><p>It spins for a second, then slows down and down and down until it points to the orange-haired girl. Eddie glances up and she’s watching him. He notices she has glitter smeared across her freckled cheeks, just beneath her eyes. </p><p>Eddie doesn’t move. He isn’t sure what his facial expression is doing. Orange Hair purses her lips and scoots into the middle. “Alright, Eddie,” she says, sounding annoyed.</p><p><em> Alright, bitch </em>. Eddie scowls and moves forward. </p><p>The guy timing shuffles with his phone then says, “Okay… and <em> go</em>.”</p><p>“I’m Nicky, by the way,” Nicky says, then grips Eddie by the collar of his shirt and tugs him forward. </p><p>Eddie’s immediate thought is she tastes like hard alcohol underneath her cherry lip gloss, which is sticky and sweet. One of her hands is still twisted around his shirt, the other is light against his neck. </p><p>His second thought is <em> nice to know I have a solid clarification on the gay thing</em>. She’s too fast and clipped, like she’s racing Eddie but he doesn’t even know what the fuck they’re racing to. </p><p>Then her tongue is suddenly in his mouth. Eddie gasps in surprise and steadies himself by grabbing at her shoulder. Nicky moves closer. That definitely isn’t what he wants. Are they seriously doing this for seven minutes? </p><p>Eddie wonders how many germs are on the human tongue. He’s going to have to look that up later.</p><p>The timer goes off and Nicky pulls back just barely, her breath wet. “You kiss like a dead fish,” she tells Eddie.</p><p>Eddie makes a face but before he can say anything someone else speaks. </p><p>“Well, that was fucking fan<em>tastic</em>!”</p><p>Eddie falls away from Nicky. Richie is at the stairs, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. His voice is strained and weirdly practiced. Like nails on chalkboard.</p><p>Eddie wonders how long he’d been standing there, then decides he shouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter either way because Richie isn’t even looking at Eddie, he’s looking at Nicky, who’s looking right on back.</p><p>“Who are you?” she asks, lip curling.</p><p>Richie ignores her. “A real job well done, I think,” Richie continues, stepping around a box of discarded books and closer to the circle. “I would’ve done without the tongue action — tacky, in my opinion—”</p><p>“Ex<em>cuse </em>me?” Nicky snaps. She turns to Eddie. “Do you know him?”</p><p>Eddie struggles up. “Uh. Kind of?” his words slur. </p><p>“Also sloppy,” Richie notes. He’s smiling, his tone still cheerfully teasing. “Eds, doesn’t like too much saliva. Bit of a hypochondriac. You wouldn’t know that though, of course. So I’d say a solid five-outta-ten! How ‘bout you, Eds?”</p><p>Eddie turns a violent shade of red, watching the group look between Richie and Eddie. He clenches his jaw, mutters an apology, and grabs Richie by the elbow, basically dragging him upstairs.</p><p>“No, wait,” Richie whines, trying to peel his fingers off, “I want to meet the lucky gal that took good ol’ Spaghetti’s kiss-ginity. You know, like virginity but—”</p><p>“<em>Beep-beep </em>,” Eddie spits out. He stumbles up the stairs, trying to focus his eyesight in, but it's still fuzzy. </p><p>Everything is ten times louder upstairs and Eddie flinches back at the sound, blinking fast. His face is burning. Richie, for some fucking reason, is still talking.</p><p>“That seemed like a fun game,” he’s saying. “Was that girl the real winner? Or had you been trying out samples that round? Playing the field like a smooth criminal, you know. Or was she just your sloppy seconds, Eddie Spaghetti?”</p><p>Eddie spots an open bathroom and makes a beeline for it, pulling Richie along. “I fucking beeped you, asshole. Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, pushing through the thick of the crowd.</p><p>Richie does for a few seconds, but when Eddie pulls them both into the vacant bathroom, slamming the door shut, he looks like he’s revving up for more.</p><p>Eddie beats him to it. “What the fuck was that?”</p><p>Richie throws up his hands, surprised, but it looks faked. “What, man? I was just joking around—”</p><p>“No,” says Eddie, and his throat feels clogged and uncomfortable, “you were being <em> mean </em>. You were being mean to me. That was embarrassing.”</p><p>Richie visibly deflates, a look of hurt flashing across his face. “Oh,” he says, small.</p><p>Eddie crosses his arms. “Yeah.”</p><p>“I —” he shrugs. “I’m sorry, Eds.”</p><p>“Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie amends softly. “I’m sorry, Eddie.”</p><p>Eddie stares at himself in the mirror, just over Richie’s shoulder. He looks blotchy. “You don’t have to say everything—” when he isn’t speaking carefully, his words start to slur from the alcohol. He swallows and says, “say everything you’re thinking all the time.”</p><p>“I know.” He’s starting to look like a kicked puppy.</p><p>“Because sometimes it’s not funny,” Eddie says.</p><p>Richie ducks his head down further. “I know.”</p><p>“Do you, Richie?” asks Eddie. </p><p>Richie glances up to him and he nods, shuffling his feet. “Yeah,” he says, fumbling for a moment. He sounds just as slurred as Eddie does. “I was just — I didn’t think — It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Eds-<em> ddie </em>. Eddie. I feel like a douchebag.”</p><p>Eddie watches him. Then lightly kicks his foot. “Yeah, you are,” he says kindly. “I thought you were supposed to protect me from scary party monsters, not be one.”</p><p>Richie laughs, seemingly relieved. “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain,” he says thoughtfully.</p><p>Eddie makes a gagging noise. </p><p>Richie pauses. Considers. “Was your first kiss any good?” </p><p>Eddie shrugs. “Could’ve been better,” he replies. <em> Could’ve been a boy. Could’ve been you </em> . “Her technique <em> was </em> kind of sloppy.”</p><p>“I thought so,” Richie smiles, chuffing Eddie’s chin. “Well, you’ve got a lot of years left full of shitty kissers.”</p><p>Eddie scoffs. “Okay, fuck you.”</p><p>“I only mean, you’ve got a lot of good stories coming, Eds.”</p><p>Richie smiles softly and Eddie feels warm all over. He isn’t even all that grossed out that they’re standing in a bathroom that smells dimly like throw up. Eddie can still taste Nicky’s sour chapstick on his lips and he rubs at them with the pad of his thumb. Richie watches him, tracking the movement, before he looks back up and their eyes meet. </p><p>Then there’s a knock on the door and they both jump, speaking at once.</p><p>“Occupied,” Eddie stumbles. While Richie lets out an annoyed, “We’re busy.”</p><p>The person outside pauses, then mutters, “Oh, <em> gross </em>,” and their footsteps trail away. Eddie blushes at whatever the stranger thought they were doing.</p><p>When he glances back to Rich, he’s staring at Eddie with an unreadable expression.</p><p>“Do you wanna get out of here?” Richie asks, tilting his head. His voice is several octaves lower than Eddie is completely comfortable with. </p><p>“Of the bathroom?” Eddie laughs uneasily.</p><p>Richie looks unimpressed. “Of this party.”</p><p>Eddie’s stomach flips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1:15 A.M. - 6:14 A.M.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> 1:15 A.M. - 6:14 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Richie opens up the door and the blast of music and voices overwhelms him again. Eddie slips past him, heading towards the living room where the front doors should be. Richie is on his tail.</p><p>Richie pulls him back just as some guy rushes past them, yelling. </p><p>That’s when Eddie notices the music has actually stopped. Whatever Eddie was hearing must have been phantom because the only sound is the pounding of feet scattering in different directions and frantic shouting. Someone else thunders past and shoves Richie and Eddie apart. </p><p>Eddie stumbles back, looking around. He catches a girl by her elbow and she falls backwards. “What’s going on?” he asks over the noise.</p><p>She shakes him off, laughing. “The fucking police, man,” she says, then dashes off.</p><p>Richie is suddenly beside him, grabbing him by the back of his sweater. “We’ve gotta go,” Richie says.</p><p>Eddie nods and starts towards the doors, but Richie pulls him back again. “They’ll catch us. There has to be another way out,” Richie says, grabbing Eddie’s hand and locking their fingers. “Don’t get lost.”</p><p>Then Richie is dragging him along through the crowd. The heat, the thrashing of limbs, and ugly shouts is doing nothing for Eddie’s nausea. He’s moving too quickly, and his drunken brain is several steps behind, being whiplashed forward.</p><p>Somewhere over the sound of his own brain, he hears a couple of kids laugh-scream as another, authoritative voice speaks over them. </p><p>Richie tugs him through the kitchen, then out through a door in the corner, which leads to a dining room. There aren’t any windows, the chairs slightly askew and the table decked out in what must have been a beer pong tournament.</p><p>“Do you know where you’re going?” asks Eddie.</p><p>“There’s gotta be a back door, right,” Richie muses. Their hands are still together, sweaty, and Eddie itches to remove his and clean it against his pants. </p><p>“I thought you’ve been here before,” Eddie frowns.</p><p>“I didn’t draw a fucking floorplan. Here,” and Richie pulls him back through the kitchen.</p><p>Then they’re out in the living room again. It’s mostly empty save for a few kids who are sitting sulkily on the couches and picking at loose threads. A policeman who’s standing by the open doors glances up and straightens.</p><p>“Hello,” Richie says. He squeezes tightly on Eddie’s hand.</p><p>“Go ahead and take a seat, guys,” the man sighs, motioning towards the couches. “No point in running now.”</p><p>Richie nods slowly and Eddie catches him eyeing the doors. The policeman makes a move to walk towards them.</p><p>“Not with that attitude there’s not!” Richie says, takes a trick step towards the hallway leading to the basement and study, then dashes towards the front door. The policeman stumbles, then takes chase.</p><p>“<em>Richie </em>!” Eddie yelps, his feet dragged out from under him as Richie ducks around the policeman and out the door. </p><p>Richie jumps down the front steps, the policeman hollering behind them, and takes off down the street. They pass his yellow Volvo in a flash. The humid air whips through Eddie’s hair as he tries to keep up. Richie is laughing, and as he runs, he throws a look back.</p><p>The policeman is by the front doors, leaning into his shoulder, and talking into his walkie. He gives them one last look, then goes back inside, shutting the door. </p><p>Richie grins. “We’re wanted men, Eds,” he says happily, and tosses up their interlocked hands. </p><p>Eddie trips over a crack in the pavement, falling to his knees with a hiss. His pants make a ripping noise as Richie tugs him back up, his skin dragging painfully across the sidewalk. “You fucking idiot,” Eddie says breathlessly. “We could’ve been caught.”</p><p>“Yeah, but we <em> weren’t </em>. It’s all in the perspective, Eddie,” he’s saying, and he makes some odd, karate chops through the air, pulling Eddie’s arm along with it. “I’m too quick. Like a ninja.”</p><p>Richie Tozier’s luck astounds Eddie. “No, I think you’re just stupid.”</p><p>“Stupid <em> fast </em>, sure—”</p><p>Somewhere up the street a police car begins to whoop. “Okay, the fucking Flash, what’s your next brilliant plan?” Eddie says, glancing behind them. They’d lulled to a walk when they saw the other policeman go inside.</p><p> </p><p>Richie is able to maneuver quickly enough between two of the houses just as the cop car revs their ignition. They stumble behind the darkened houses until they’re on Kansas Street.  </p><p>The sky is pregnant with dark, cumbersome clouds. A deep rumble of thunder chills the street. It’s humid from the day’s rain. Streetlights cast a warm glow over the both of them as Richie takes the lead, kicking away loose pebbles. </p><p>“Where are we going?” Eddie asks, having to half-jog to keep up.</p><p>Richie shrugs. “Thought we could walk down to the Barrens.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Ask a lotta questions when you’re drunk,” Richie hums to himself. Eddie doesn’t think he’s that drunk anymore. The fresh air feels sobering, but then again, he’s antsy and nervous. That might just be from Richie, though.</p><p>“Oh, right,” he starts, “are you proud of me? I got shit-faced like you said.”</p><p>Richie snorts, wrapping an arm around his neck and rubbing his knuckles into the top of Eddie’s head. Eddie squeaks, and struggles away from him. “My Eddie, all boozed up!”</p><p>“Am I?”</p><p>Richie lets him go, giving him a quizzical look. “What?”</p><p><em> Am I your Eddie? </em> He swallows the words down forcibly and shakes his head. He’s not drunk enough to lose all his sense, thankfully. “Nothing.”</p><p>“Okay, weirdo,” says Richie, amused. He pokes the side of Eddie’s cheek. Eddie bats him away like he’s supposed to. </p><p>“How’s your face?” Eddie asks. </p><p>Overhead, the clouds creak. Eddie can feel the air’s moisture curling the ends of his hair. The streets are empty and wide open. Derry looks better like this, he thinks, when there’s no one else but Richie and him. </p><p>“Hotter than ever,” Richie says, clicking his tongue and winking, “and getting hotter by the second, thanks for asking.”</p><p>Eddie shoves him lightly. “I mean the broken bit. Where Henry hit you.”</p><p>“Oh.” Richie prods at the light, purplish bruise forming below his left eye. “Alright, I guess. My mom’s going to be pissed when she sees. I don’t think she’s going to like me sporting a black eye for my grad pic, but what can I say? I’m a bad boy at heart. A delinquent.”</p><p>“Sure thing,” Eddie laughs. “You’re really showing her, what with your NYU scholarship and all. That really screams rebel without a cause.”</p><p>“Right,” says Richie and then doesn’t say anything else. </p><p>Eddie glances at him, but he’s looking up at the sky. </p><p>They hop over the fence and down to the Barrens in a comfortable silence. Eddie keeps glancing sideways at him. There’s this funny thing wriggling in his chest.</p><p>He keeps thinking about Richie tossing pebbles at his window. Richie calling him baby. Pinching his cheek. Kissing his hand. Acting, maybe, just possibly, jealous. </p><p>Eddie carefully leans into him as they walk. Richie lets him, just wrangles his arm out and folds it around Eddie’s shoulders. Maybe Richie wants him the same way. Maybe Eddie can take him to California. Not physically, but tucked away in his heart and his palms. </p><p>Eddie imagines that. Waking up to Richie texting him. Facetiming at night. Visiting one another. Eddie imagines getting everything he wants. Good things deserve to happen to him, he thinks.</p><p>Eddie bumps up against a tree branch and hisses. He’s reminded of the dull throb coming from his knee, and pulls away from Richie, who’s stopped. He bends down and fingers away the tear in his khakis, revealing a scrape with a bubble of blood oozing from it. He makes a face. </p><p>He’s going to have to throw these pants away before his mom sees, or she’ll blow her cap.</p><p>“Here.” Richie puts a hand on his shoulder.“Sit down.”</p><p>Eddie glances at him, then allows Richie to push him to a fallen log. Not before he picks off a slimy strip of moss, flicking it to the side with a curled lip. </p><p>Richie kneels in front of him and Eddie shoves away the drunken implications the image brings to mind. Richie’s hand wraps around his ankle, Eddie can feel the warmth of his hand through his woolen socks. </p><p>“You have to be more careful,” Richie says, brushing away a loose thread and staring at the pavement burn etched into Eddie’s knee. </p><p>Eddie makes an affronted noise. “I’m very careful,” he states. “You’re the one who dragged me halfway down West Broadway.”</p><p>Richie’s eyes flick up to him. They’re blown wide and dark. He licks the pad of his thumb and cleans off the blood on Eddie’s injured knee, his remaining fingers placed gently on the back of his calf.</p><p>“That’s really unsanitary,” Eddie croaks.</p><p>Richie’s lips quirk up into a lop-sided smile. He moves himself between Eddie’s legs. “What can I say,” Richie shrugs, still smiling, “I’m a dirty guy.”</p><p>His hands are on top of Eddie’s knees, grounding him in place. Richie leans in and unzips the fanny pack attached to Eddie’s waist, rifling through its contents. When he pulls back, their faces are close enough that Eddie can see the faint acne scars along Rich’s jawline and the way Richie’s gaze wanders momentarily.</p><p>Then he’s pulled away, sitting back on his heels, and the air clears. He presses a bandaid to Eddie’s knee, patting it fondly. “All patched up, soldier,” he says easily. “You're lucky I got to it so quickly or we’d have had to amputate your leg.”</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes, pushing back his hair. “We need to amputate your head,” Eddie says lamely.</p><p>Richie grins, standing up. “Good one,” he teases, offering his hand. </p><p>Eddie stands up without it, brushing his hands on his pants nervously. Eddie can’t possibly be the only one here, he thinks, glancing at Richie. A terrible thought occurs to Eddie. Maybe Richie knows. Maybe he knows and he’s being cruel. Maybe he’s laughing at him. </p><p>Richie’s hair is curly and dark, tumbling across his forehead and getting caught in the hinges of his glasses. His glasses are crooked and grimy again. He’s still grinning at Eddie. He doesn’t look cruel. Eddie bats the thought away. Richie wouldn’t. </p><p>“How drunk are you?” he asks, and starts walking in the direction of their old Clubhouse.</p><p>Eddie stumbles behind him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”</p><p>“‘Cause I got a baggy of weed and I don’t want to get high alone, man.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Rich, isn’t it kinda dangerous to mix—”</p><p>“Nah,” Richie waves him off. “Makes it better. I promise I won’t tell anyone that little Eddie K. is out doing drugs.” He turns around to flick Eddie’s nose. Eddie dodges, scowling. </p><p>“How’d you even get weed?”</p><p>“Uhh, we just spent three hours at a party — it practically fell into my lap,” Richie says. “I’m like a weed magnet. Shit just gravitates to me.”</p><p>“That’s not something to brag about,” Eddie frowns. “It’s kind of gross, actually.”</p><p>“You’re kinda gross,” Richie smiles, skipping over a log.</p><p>Eddie swerves around it. “My point proven. It’s corroding what little is left of your brain,” Eddie drolls. “You’re gonna become a vegetable and some rando is going to have to help you piss.”</p><p>“Hope that rando is Mrs. K,” Richie says dreamily. “That’d be hot.”</p><p>Eddie snorts. “Ew. Didn’t know you were into piss.”</p><p>Richie lets out a loud laugh. When he’s quieted down, he says, “C’mon, Eds. Daren the Lion can’t get you anymore. He’s dead. You’re free. Drugs are cool and you should say yes.”</p><p>Eddie shakes his head, smiling. “You’re the counterforce to everything good in the world.”</p><p>“Ow.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 1:53 A.M. </em>
</p><p><em> I love you so much I think I should be killed for it </em>.</p><p>They’re on their backs, staring up at the blanketed trees above them, the pinpricks of moonlight that seep between the veiny skin of their leaves. The air is heavy with Eddie’s hurt and the promise of summer rain.</p><p>Richie had rolled a single joint with the baggy of weed he’d found. Long fingers careful and practiced. Eddie knows him and Bev sometimes smoked after school. Usually when Bev was sad, but that she hasn’t been in a while. </p><p>He lighted the joint with a lighter he scrounged from his jean pocket, then took a long pull and offered it to Eddie. Their fingers had brushed when Eddie accepted it, angling it between two of his fingers like Richie had. Richie watched him, teasing and amused, as Eddie breathed it in then promptly coughed his lungs out. </p><p>“Slower,” Richie had warned. “You do everything too quickly.” </p><p>They’d passed it around for a bit, not really talking, until the joint had budded out and Eddie had leaned back into the warm grass. It tickles his neck now, his fingertips. Eddie isn’t sure if the crossfading has done anything to him, but he does feel like he’s sinking. He can feel Richie beside him. He itches to lean over and touch him, smooth out the curls on his forehead, straighten his glasses, press his fingers to his wrist just to feel the thrum of his heart. </p><p>It all hurts so much. </p><p>Whoever said love comes easy got away with the fattest lie in existence. Loving Richie is the hardest thing Eddie has ever done. </p><p>“I kissed Greta tonight.”</p><p>
  <em> Loving you is like eating dirt.  </em>
</p><p>“I hope your kiss was better than mine,” Eddie says, and picks at the grass. </p><p>“Could’ve been better.”</p><p>
  <em> It’s like breaking bones. </em>
</p><p>Richie sighs. Eddie can feel him shrugging. “I could’ve gotten further with her.”</p><p>
  <em> I love you raw. I love you infinite. </em>
</p><p>“I think she’s a bitch,” says Eddie.</p><p>Richie rolls over, up on his elbow and stares down at him. Eddie stares up. The cut on his cheek has scabbed over, but the bruise has darkened. “Do you?” he asks, not unkindly.</p><p>Eddie smiles blithely. “I do,” he swears. “I think she’s a bitch and she needs to cover up her basement insulation or else we’ll all get lung cancer.”</p><p>Richie laughs, his voice a little hoarse, and flops back to the ground. “She’s kinda hot though. I’ll take one for the team.”</p><p>Eddie groans, poking Richie’s side with an angry finger. Richie yelps and pulls himself away. “You fuck girls, Richie,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “I know. Greta knows. <em> God </em>knows.”</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Eddie says and struggles up to a sitting position. “Can we talk about something else? I’m tired of talking about your dick.”</p><p>Richie grins and Eddie says, unimpressed, “My mom isn’t, she loves your dick, yes I know. You need more material, Rich.”</p><p>Richie just laughs and sits up too. They’re knee to knee now, cross-legged. “Whaddya wanna talk about, Eds?” he asks. </p><p>Eddie shrugs, thinking. “Are you excited to leave?”</p><p>Richie blinks. “Leave?”</p><p>“Derry.”</p><p>“Oh. Yeah, I guess,” Richie says, tapping a rhythm on his knee. “I’ll miss it though, too.”</p><p>Eddie laughs derisively. “I won’t.”</p><p>Richie’s eyes snap up. “What’s so fucking bad about it?” demands Richie, looking suddenly annoyed. The white of his eyes are red from smoking.</p><p>Eddie flinches back with surprise. “Nothing,” he says, raising his hands. “I’m bored of it, is all. It’s just a shitty town.”</p><p>Richie rolls his eyes, but it's not in a fond way. “Yeah,” he says sarcastically. “It’s a really shitty town. Bet you can’t wait to get away from all us shitty friends and all your shitty memories of us.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Eddie says, defensive. “That’s literally not what I said.”</p><p>Richie shrugs, tongue in his cheek, picking at the grass by his Converse. “Sometimes that’s all you say,” he says simply.</p><p>“Well. I’m excited about California,” Eddie says, trying to shake the odd tension that had suddenly formed. “I mean. Aren’t you excited for NYU?”</p><p>“I’m not going to NYU.”</p><p>Eddie freezes. Richie is looking at him like he’s raised a bet, a challenge. “What?”</p><p>“I’m taking a leap year,” he states flatly. “Maybe longer. I don’t know.”</p><p>“Why the fuck would you do that?”</p><p>“Why the fuck does it matter?”</p><p>Eddie looks at him like he’s lost his mind, laughing humorlessly. “Because it’s a good school and a good opportunity,” he lists. “Are you seriously just going to give that up, to what, fuck around? Jesus, Richie, you have to care about <em> something </em>.”</p><p>Richie’s face turns dark. “I care about loads of shit, asshole,” he says. “So sorry I’m not cumming my pants everytime I think about moving away. You talk about LA like it’s going to change your life, Eddie.”</p><p>“So? Maybe it will.” Eddie shifts away from him, crossing his arms. Overhead, thunder groans.</p><p>Richie lets out a singular laugh. “You think that running off to California is going to upturn your life and make you some new person? Like this one night is your reconstructive surgery? Fucking face it, Eddie. You’re just Derry trash.” Richie gives him a pitying look, pressed smile. “You’re gonna to UCLA and be the same kid you are now, Eds,” it's a mean nickname now and Eddie really does hate it, “I mean, fuck, you don’t even have enough balls to tell your mom you’re going.”</p><p>Eddie struggles to his feet, feeling light-headed and sick to his stomach. He feels like he might actually have an asthma attack. Richie follows him up.</p><p>“<em>Fuck you</em>, Richie,” Eddie spits, his eyes burning. “You don’t know what the <em>fuck </em>I have to deal with at home. You just cut your losses and you don’t think, and you never care about anything. Do you think it's fair, Richie? That you get shit handed to you—”</p><p>Richie scowls. “That’s bullshit, Eddie—”</p><p>“It's <em> not </em>though. You always get what you want,” he says softly. His voice is wet, throaty. And without thinking, too high or drunk or hurt, he adds, “I always give it to you.”</p><p>“What do you want me to say, Eddie?” Richie hisses. “That I’m sorry your mom sucks? I’m sorry you hate Derry? I’m sorry you’re gay?”</p><p>Eddie goes white and still. </p><p>Richie freezes, looking as if all the world he’d like to swallow back his words.</p><p>Eddie feels the hotness of tears slip down his cheeks. He rubs at them ruefully. Richie had been, afterall. He had been laughing at Eddie. Poor, gay Eddie in love with straight best friend Richie. Poor Eddie and his poor feelings and poor taste. </p><p>Who is he kidding? Richie is right. Eddie is just Derry trash. It stays with you and it eats you even when you’re gone.</p><p>Richie looks desperate. His eyes are wide, pleading. “What do you want me to say?” like he means it, like he’s begging Eddie to tell him what to do.</p><p>
  <em> Say that you love me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Say that you want me just as much as I want you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want you to say you love me until you’re bleeding from the mouth. I want you to hurt for me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want your hands and your skin and your attention. I want you to be so in love with me you can’t tell where you start and where I end. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want you to have to pick me out of your teeth.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 2:30 A.M. </em>
</p><p>“Say that you’ll miss me,” is what Eddie asks. He’s crying and his throat itches with his tears. “Because I’m leaving, Richie,” he promises, “and I’m tired.”</p><p>Richie steps forward, licking his dried lips. “Eddie,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“Just say that you’ll miss me,” Eddie repeats.</p><p>“I don’t want to,” whispers Richie. His throat sounds wrecked.</p><p>Eddie nods and turns away. He feels the alcohol slosh in his stomach. He has a fucking massive migraine forming, he knows it.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Richie says from behind him.</p><p>Eddie doesn’t stop. “Home. Away from you.”</p><p>“Eddie, wait—”</p><p>Richie pulls him back by the elbow, spinning him around. Eddie stumbles back from the proximity, but Richie meets him for each step until their chest to chest.</p><p>Then Richie is angling his head down towards Eddie and—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 2:32 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Richie Tozier is kissing him. </p><p>Like, <em> really </em>kissing Eddie. With one hand cupping Eddie’s elbow, his other guiding Eddie’s chin up and forward. </p><p>Eddie stills feels the weed in his lungs. His eyes feel itchy. He feels itchy, jittery almost, like something in his blood is boiling over. He’d like to think it's Richie doing that, making his blood boil. Because that’s how he imagined it’d be (in his stupid, chewing on the end of his pencil wet dreams.) Richie would kiss Eddie and Eddie would melt into something less and more and not human, then Richie would mold him back into place. </p><p>Yet. Eddie is itchy and he’s drunk and Richie’s breath tastes like alcohol. <em> Eddie </em>probably tastes like alcohol. </p><p>And then, of course, (cream of the crop on this whole fucking night) Eddie is also crying. He feels way out of his depth right now, he can’t even tell if he’s kissing back.</p><p>He should be, he thinks. This is definitely the finale of whatever shit show is going on right now. </p><p>Richie is kissing him gentle, kissing him soft, and Eddie is starting to wonder what the fuck he’s doing letting Richie do that. </p><p>Eddie hates him, he thinks. Eddie really does. His blood is burning with it.</p><p>Eddie pulls back.</p><p>Richie’s lips are kissed red and full, they follow Eddie closer, he breathes out, “Eds.”</p><p>Eddie takes another step back. Something solid has cooled inside his chest. “You are not a nice person, Richie,” Eddie tells him. “You’re just mean.”</p><p>It rains. The heavy sky cracks and hot rain comes washing down on them. Eddie rolls his eyes at the drama of it all. He then sighs, letting go of the tired ache in his chest, and leaves Richie standing and watching.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 2:55 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak is going to California.</p><p>Even if that means he’ll have to slice out whatever part of his soul he’s given to Richie Tozier rent-free. He can’t stay anymore. Eddie can’t let him stay.</p><p>Maybe he’s running away. You have to do that, though, when you smell the fire. You have to run before you’re burned up. Before he’s stuck forever in this town, stuck forever loving Richie.</p><p>Maybe love is easy and Eddie just chose wrong.</p><p>As it rains, the cold sinking into his skin, Eddie forgives Richie. That’s part of the moving on. It hurts to forgive him after years of being angry, but the hurting is good and good things deserve to happen to Eddie.</p><p>He’ll go to California and he’ll breathe freely. California may not change him, he might always be Eddie Kaspbrak from Derry, Maine. But at least he has the chance to be better. To let himself open up to change. There will be no holding back when he gets there. </p><p>He’s been holding shit in for eighteen years. This time ‘round, Eddie will be happy without secrets. </p><p>
  <em> I love you for the last time, Richie. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eddie doesn’t realize he’s fucked up until it's too late. </p><p>He should’ve picked up on the very blatant signs. The lights were on. The door was unlocked. But Eddie wasn’t thinking, so he just walked in through the front door and right into another shitty fucking moment.</p><p>His mother is standing in the foyer. She’s blocking the stairs. She’s smiling so sweetly, Eddie’s already flinching. His wet shoes are making a puddle on the rug. </p><p>“You worried me, Eddie-bear,” Sonia says. “It’s so late. I was so scared when you weren’t in bed.”</p><p>Eddie doesn’t even know what to say. “I— I’m sorry,” he whispers. </p><p>“You’re my baby, Eddie,” she says. One hand is behind her back. Her voice cracks. “I want to keep you safe, but you can’t run off like that. You could’ve been killed or kidnapped by some pervert — and it's raining. You’ll get sick for your graduation tomorrow.”</p><p>“I was being safe,” Eddie says carefully. “I was with friends.”</p><p>She smiles, humming. “Who?” she says. “Richard Tozier, Eddie? Because he’s dirty,” Eddie digs his nails into his palms, “I see the way he looks at you, <em> touches </em>you,” she grounds out, her voice still sugary sweet, “he’s dirty, Eddie. You’ll get dirty hanging around him.”</p><p>“Maybe he’ll get dirty from me,” Eddie says sharply, “Ma.”</p><p>Her face goes red. “Has he done something to you?” she asks, looking sick. “What has he done.”</p><p>Eddie toes off his shoes. Careful, always so careful around her. “He hasn’t done anything,” Eddie promises.</p><p>“Was he the one who tricked you into leaving, Eddie?” she asks, desperate, voice whiny. He thinks she’s talking about tonight, about leaving the house, but then she takes a great, shuddering breath and reveals the hand behind her back. </p><p>The sky might as well have crashed at his feet.</p><p>His envelope, his ticket to California, is being waved in her hand. “Is he the one who made you do this, Eddie?” she asks shrilly. </p><p>His mind races. <em> How did she find it? When was the last time he had it? Didn’t he put it away properly? How could he be so fucking dumb? </em></p><p>Without permission, his throat chokes up and he feels a pressure behind his eyes. “Ma,” his voice cracks. “Ma, don’t—”</p><p>“Oh, baby,” she coos, stepping forward and opening her arms. “Don’t worry, you’re not going.”</p><p>Eddie flinches back. He swallows hard. “<em> No </em> ,” he gasps out. “I <em> am </em>. I applied to UCLA, Ma. I bought the ticket myself.”</p><p>She looks surprised, and then sad. For him. “Oh, Eddie-bear, you can’t <em> go </em>,” she says, “it's too dangerous. Too far away from home. What if you get hurt? Who’s going to care for you but me?”</p><p>Eddie is breathing hard, shaking his head. “No, no,” he says, not sure who he’s pleading to because his mother is unresponsive, watching him with big sad eyes and a smile. “No, I’m going. I have to go—”</p><p>“<em>Eddie </em>,” she cuts in, sharp. She waves the envelope in front of her. “You are not leaving—”</p><p>“You can’t make me stay.” He’s crying and he wipes his cheeks.</p><p>“It is my responsi<em>bility </em>,” his mom cries out, “to keep you safe. And California is just not safe for a boy like you, Eddie.”</p><p>Methodically, she takes the ticket out from the envelope, along with the folded acceptance letter, and holds both between her hands. </p><p>“You’re too sensitive,” she says consolingly. Eddie lets out a shattered “no” as she tears it in half, rushing forward. Eddie’s mom steps back warningly, holding the pieces close to her chest. She lines them up as she continues to speak, “too fragile,” another tear. </p><p>“There’s nothing out there for you, Eddie-bear,” and tears it again, “you need to stay here, with me, in Derry. Where you belong.”</p><p>She opens up her hands and the shredded paper flutters to the ground. Everything inside Eddie is quiet, like it's died. His breath is wet, too slow. His chest feels clogged up.</p><p>His mother steps on the pieces as she walks up to him. She takes Eddie’s chin in her hand (the last imprint of Richie fading) and tilts it up to meet her gaze. She wipes at his tears. “Don’t worry me like that again,” she whispers. “You’re my baby, do you know that?”</p><p>And all he can say is, “I know, Ma.”</p><p>“And I love you. It’s because I love you, that I have to protect you.” She leans close and kisses his forehead. </p><p> </p><p>When she goes back to the living room, where she must have been waiting for him, to collect her things, Eddie reaches down and brushes the tiny papers into his hand. </p><p>He goes upstairs. There’s a small crack on his window from where Richie had thrown a bit of gravel at it. The rain hits the roof hard. </p><p>He falls asleep with the bits of paper in his fist. He’s too tired to keep crying. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 6:00 A.M. </em>
</p><p>Eddie doesn’t go to graduation. </p><p>His mother won’t let him. But he also just doesn’t want to go. He feels sick, and it’s not from the hangover, he just feels sick right down to his bones. </p><p>He stays in bed, wanting to cry but not, so his eyes just get strained and heavy. He rubs at them, pressing the heels of his hands into them until it hurts. </p><p>Eddie isn’t going to California. He keeps trying to tell himself that. </p><p>He bought the ticket manually. Sneaking out one day with Bill and driving to the airport. It’s not catalogued online. He can’t reprint it. He doesn’t have enough money to buy a new one. </p><p>Eddie thought about calling the airlines and asking if they could maybe find his name and verify he can still go, or at the very least refund him. But his mother has been in and out of his room every few minutes, checking his ‘fever,’ and Derry Airport has incredibly shitty service and organization. </p><p>He thought briefly about calling UCLA’s admissions office to either ask them for a one-way ticket to LA that would surely get denied or back down on his commitment, which he doesn’t even want to think about, no less act on.</p><p>So he stays in bed and mourns. That’s all there’s left to do.</p><p>He was so fucking close. </p><p>Once in Derry, always in Derry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 6:14 A.M. - Resolution</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>6:14 A.M.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bill: </b>
  <em>
    <span>hey where are you??</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bill: </b>
  <em>
    <span>you have 8 minutes before we’re walking</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bill: </b>
  <em>
    <span>hello?? are you okay</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Bevvie: </b>
  <em>
    <span>uhhhhhhhhhhh wtf is going on? r you not coming?? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bevvie: </b>
  <em>
    <span>do you have a hangover or smthg? take advil and hurry the fuck over richie’s being more annoying than usual</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bevvie: </b>
  <em>
    <span>wait did u 2 get into a fight??? fucking gretas parties man they’re no good</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Richard Dick Tozier: </b>
  <em>
    <span>hey, u ok?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie chews on his cheek for a moment, then swipes his phone open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She tore up my plane ticket</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he writes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bubble and ellipse forms on Richie’s side. It stays there for a few minutes, then disappears. It doesn’t come back again. Eddie clicks the phone off, and turns into his pillow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>7:09 A.M.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie is on the Kissing Bridge. He has his arms rested on the worn boards of the fence, leaning over the side and watching the river below rush past. It’s clear from the rainstorm last night and heavy with white foam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie doesn’t need to say anything. Eddie hears him coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s wearing his graduation robes and cap, all in the deep blue of Derry High School. The ends of the robe drag on the dirty wood of the bridge. He’s holding two diplomas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie waves one, smiling awkwardly, and meets Eddie by the fence. He hands the rolled up diploma to him. “You got out,” Richie says, watching Eddie roll it between his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie,” Richie begins, soft, like he’s walking on eggshells around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie sighs, looking at him only briefly. “I’m not mad at you anymore, Rich,” he says, then stares back at the water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel Richie standing there, farther than he ever stands from Eddie. “That’s good news,” he says lightly, jokey. “I fear the wrath of Eddie Kaspbrak.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shuffles his feet. “Can’t we just kiss and make up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie does look up at that. Richie is watching him, smiling halfly. He looks dopey and earnest, and Eddie feels an ounce of hurt. “I’m not kissing you again, Richie,” he says tenderly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s face falls, then he laughs, then stops. “Oh, I,” he starts, shakes his head, says, “Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You kissing me doesn’t make up for all the times you didn’t,” says Eddie. “When you should’ve.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did a bad job at that, huh?” Richie jokes, nervous. He bounces on the balls of his feet and makes to shove his hands in pockets, but the robe doesn't have any. “Are you going to hate me forever, then, because I don’t think I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t hate you, Richie,” Eddie chides, and pokes Richie’s chest so he knows it's okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you don’t want to kiss me.” Richie looks confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think the two are codependent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Richie says, “you like me, but you don’t want to kiss me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we’re friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that seems to end it because Richie stops bouncing on his feet and instead watches the river with Eddie. “Right,” he says and Eddie knows he’s really only talking to himself. “We’re friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie leans into him, and very carefully, Richie wraps an arm around him. The comfort is suddenly too much, and Eddie begins to cry again. He thought he was over that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck am I going to do?” he says breathlessly, taking in a shaky breath. “Where am I gonna go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shifts, folding him into his arms and Eddie presses his face into the cool softness of his robes, arms scrunched up between their chests. He lets himself be hugged. Richie presses his face into his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he pulls back, serious, taking Eddie by the shoulders. Richie brushes away the tears on his face, quick and succinct, and he says, “You’re going to California.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie laughs wetly. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Rich, I told you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shakes his head like Eddie doesn’t get it. “You’re going to California because I’m going to drive you there,” Richie says and Eddie pauses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about money?” asks Eddie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll figure that out later,” Richie breathes. He combs back a curl from Eddie’s forehead. “Let me drive you to California, Eds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything comes rushing back to Eddie, like his bones are waking up. It’s a ridiculous idea, he thinks. They have no plan. Eddie’s mother still has her iron grip wrapped around his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Richie is staring at him like the world is just beginning to spin, just beginning to make sense. Richie looks hopeful and promising. Richie isn’t scared and he isn’t worried and his car, ugly as it is, fucking works. There’s a million reasons why Eddie should say no, so many reasons to be afraid, to be stuck forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There will be no holding back.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” none of those reasons matter. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>